


Good Intent

by redpeppertea087



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Decent sibling relationship, Espionage, Gen, I've never done this before to there, Original Character(s), Pre-Reichenbach, Too many ideas from watching Skyfall, Um... I've got nothing else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpeppertea087/pseuds/redpeppertea087
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the down-time following The Blind Banker, a different kind of visitor turns up at 221b: a young SIS agent named Anstice Holmes. Just as her two brothers, the woman is knee-deep in the hunt for Moriarty. What was supposed to be an easy mission soon goes awry.<br/>Spans from The Blind Banker into Post-Reichenbach territory (so be warned).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Stasi

John hadn't expected a knock at the door. It was 1:45 am on a classic blizzarding mid-November morning. He couldn't help wonder what kind of client would materialize at that hour. Lestrade never bothered to knock. Another question: Why the hell was John still awake? Surely, that blog entry wasn't that important. Sherlock was, astonishingly, the one fast asleep. The taller man, dressed in his pajamas and red dressing gown, was slumped over the kitchen table – face pressed into some old file papers scattered about the abnormally clean surface.

Shaking the cobwebs out of his head, John stood and reached the door at the second knock. A young woman stood just beyond the threshold bundled in a pea-coat and scarf. A few ebony curls escaped her dark red knit beret. A circular suitcase was held against her leg.

"Hello… um, I apologize for the hour, but is Sherlock Holmes in?" she rushed, iridescent eyes flickering about. "It's urgent, Doctor Watson,"

"Um… one moment," John blinked, leaving the door wide open as he walked toward the kitchen. Sherlock was less than obliging at the prospect of having to wake up, but sprung to life when a faint plucking noise filled the space. John had to get his bearings, and then followed. The woman from before was perched on the window sill, reading Sherlock's sheet music and blithely moving her fingers in time. The detective, apparently at a loss for words, stood a bit away. She paused and glanced up, flashing her winning-est grin.

"The flat's lovely, Sher," her tone was calmer this time around, more comfortable. As if he had been in a trance, Sherlock's limbs stiffened and he swept forward. John was shocked the detective didn't yank the instrument from the woman's fingers. She continued: "And happy birthday, by the way. I know I'm a few months early but - ,"

"Why are you here?" Sherlock demanded.

"Excuse me?"

"In London, Anstice. Why you are in London," The dark-haired man crossed his arms, glowering down at the woman, who was suddenly equally serious. Sighing, she handed the Stradivarius to him, but otherwise didn't move. Instead, she calmly directed her line of sight to Sherlock's.

John couldn't take his silence any longer: "I'm sorry, but who are you?"

The woman turned to the doctor, a small smile pulling her lips.

"I'm his sister," she gestured to Sherlock's imposing form. His hand clutched the neck of his favorite though-provoker like he was fixing to strangle the thing. John quirked an eyebrow. He was sure this was just a delusion brought on by sleep deprivation.

"He doesn't have a sister," John answered, stiff voiced. Her lips parted in a mock-offended gasp. She shrugged, rose and drifted to the mantelpiece. Eyes swept over the clutter, landing on the skull. Picking it up and weighing it in her palms, Anstice whipped back around.

"I can't believe you still have this old thing…" she murmured, nose curling. Shaking it a bit, the hidden packet of cigarettes plummeted to the carpet. Stooping to retrieve it, Anstice rattled the carton, jumping back defensively as Sherlock lunged. The detective caught himself, a quick self-evaluation, and resumed his prim posture.

"You didn't answer my question,"

"I didn't,"

"Does Mycroft know?"

"Of course not. Mum, however…"

John watched in amazement as the siblings exchanged four-word cryptic sentences. The exhaustion was really getting to him by now. His hands were keeping him upright by gripping his armchair. He didn't notice Sherlock pocket the smokes or Anstice sauntering about the living room. The doctor jumped when her hand dropped onto his shoulder.

"Go to bed, Dr. Watson," Anstice smiled. John blinked, taking in her features. The woman had a rounder face, but still endowed with striking features: dark blue eyes that possessed the same chill-inducing silver sheen as her brother's; cheeks flushed pink from the cold; a dainty mouth that seemed a little small for her face; thick eyelashes that matched her dark hair that twisted in corkscrews.

"One question first," John sighed. Anstice nodded. "His birthday is when?"

"January 6th; he's 28 now," She answered. Sherlock huffed. "We're two years apart – for the record,"

"Thank you," the doctor mumbled, shooting Sherlock a half-warning looking. With a little nod to the younger Holmes, the doctor left for his room wondering what had just occurred.

"Sherlock…" The woman glanced at her brother. He had set down the violin and dropped in to the black armchair. She'd turned off the desk lamp, giving the room and eerie layout in the grey light.

"Yes, Stasi,"

"You've gathered why I'm here?"

"Some kind of secret operation that I'm technically not allowed to know you're involved in or what it's about…" He paused. "At Mycroft's behest or otherwise?"

Anstice settled herself onto the floor in front of him. "The former… I'm getting paid like it's a private request, though. Which is odd because it's international… I'm sure you're familiar with the name Moriarty?"

"Vaguely… why did you take it?"

"An excuse to come back to England… Marrakesh isn't my cup of tea," Without another word, Sherlock held out his hand. Anstice raised an eyebrow for a moment before realizing what he was after. Slowly, she extracted her passport from her coat pocket and placed it in his open palm. The man flipped through it for a minute, then strode over to the mantle to discard it. Anstice made no move to retrieve it. She always remembered to banish all questions around her closest sibling. First, questions irritated him and an irritated Sherlock was less than desirable. Second, the man's logic was a collection of anfractuosities; multiple labyrinths of hairpin turns and gaping trenches in the pursuit of alethiology.

Either way, Sherlock had his own motivations and even little Stasi knew better than to inflict baby-of-the-family sway.

"I take it you need someplace to stay," Sherlock drawled. The only eye contact made was kept through the mirror suspended over the fireplace.

"Only until my temporary flat is cleared… probably two weeks at most," Anstice shrugged. "I wasn't supposed to fly up for another week or so, but I thought I'd pop by… maybe see mum -,"

"Stasi, stop explaining. You know how little I care," the woman shut her mouth. The detective strode back to where she sat, flicking the bow about – several times "accidentally" hitting her. "We'll speak to Mrs. Hudson in the morning. I have no need to sleep now, so you can take my room for the night,"

Sherlock took a breath and letting gravity take his weight, pulling him back into the armchair. Anstice nodded, giving him a grateful smile. She made to stand, but was yanked forward by the detective's hand on her coat sleeve. A curious stare was exchanged.

"And Stasi," Sherlock continued. "Don't touch my violin without express permission," At this the young woman rolled her eyes – she didn't play the violin, so why would she unless it was necessary? Pulling her arm away, Anstice exhaled before bending forward to place a kiss on his cheek.

"See you in the morning, Sher,"

Needless to say, the good doctor Watson was indeed surprised to see the young woman and Sherlock kneeling on the floor the next morning. The pair were pouring over sheet music fanned out before them. There were at least six separate pieces displayed in the bunch – obviously they'd been up a while. John slipped into the kitchen unnoticed as the two bickered.

"No, no, no. The diminuendo starts here – back on the A," Anstice declared, jabbing her finger at a sheet – random to John's eyes – for emphasis. "Honestly, it's like you haven't played this in fifteen years!"

"I haven't," Sherlock answered simply, earning himself a harsh glare from his sister.

"Then the sentiment hasn't changed," she began quickly, gathering the papers in a neat bundle. " 'For Ana' hardly seems creative on your part, Sher," The man bristled and Anstice stood, hopping across the carpet and placing the stack on the music stand. She danced towards the kitchen. "But, I guess an apology is still an apology even if it was fifteen years ago and I'm no longer drenched in the paint that enticed it… You were so sweet when we were little , Sherlock,"

"I was not," said Sherlock through gritted teeth, making a swipe at the woman's house coat. She just laughed, leaping from his grasp.

"You were very sweet; always doting on mummy and me… What happened?" She teased, ducking behind the kitchen divider for cover in case of retaliation. Spinning around to press her back to the glass, Anstice only then noticed John casually observing from the far counter.

"Morning, Watson," She smirked. John nodded, hesitantly sipping his still-steaming coffee. After a few seconds, a melody rose up then faded back. It was clear and simple, an astonishing lack of artistry for the self proclaimed show off. John watched as Anstice's expression neutralized and as she peered around the divider, like a little girl scouting out monsters in her closet. There was something vaguely endearing about it.

"That sounds right," said she.

"To your memory, Stasi, which hasn't improved much over the years," came the dull-toned reply. As caffeine flooded his system, John finally started taking mental notes. The young woman was clad in wide-legged sleep pants that her willowy frame practically drowned in – same for the grey shirt she wore. John also started picking up on a slight Scottish accent woven amongst the words that he'd failed to notice the night before.

"Just because it's not written down doesn't mean it's not real," Anstice sounded bored, exasperated.

"If you don't have it recorded, you don't have proof. I win," Sherlock countered sharply. The conversation dwindled as the woman strode to the coffee maker. She chewed her lip, apparently lost. John smiled warmly, pulling down two mugs from their shelf and handed them to her. Anstice filled both and granted the doctor a grateful smile before carrying them into the next room.

"Perk up, Sher," John heard her mutter as he collected the newspaper, then settled into the red armchair. It seemed that neither Holmes sibling had much of an affinity for sitting down. Anstice settled her drifting body faster than her brother, standing on the window sill and gazing out into the street below. Suddenly, the woman jumped from her position.

"So, you're a detective now?" Anstice fingered the papers taped around the wall with meters of green string connecting some of the collection. It appeared that veritable scrap books pinned on walls was nothing extraordinary to her. "I heard about this one! The Chinese smugglers and the ridiculously priced jade hairpin! You solved that?"

An astonished glance was directed at the man standing by the window. Wordlessly, he popped open his laptop and pulled up a blog page. Anstice stepped over and bent towards the screen, reading the article intently. Her face shifted multiple times over the course of the few minutes, illuminated by the screen. She nodded, then leaned back and closed down the browser.

"The poor woman," She gasped, eyes flickering between the two men. The dark blue irises settled John. "I take it not much has become of that relationship?"

John's expression tightened. "Not at the moment, no,"

"That's a shame," Anstice frowned. "This Sarah sounds sweet; you should try again,"

"And what merit do you have for doling out romantic advice?" Sherlock chimed in, raising his eyebrows as he took a swallow of coffee. Anstice sighed, making her way over to the sofa. She crossed her legs on the cushions, the over-long hem of her pants bunching up under her ankles. Her hair was falling out of the loose knot she's tucked it into. Silence descended on the trio until the sound of the front door shutting echoed up.

"Weren't you going to speak to Mrs. Hudson this morning?" Anstice muttered a few minutes later. Sherlock rolled his eyes, parading into the kitchen.

"If you're staying here, Stasi, you need to make your own arrangements,"

"Can I at least get dressed first?"

"And why would you have to ask me in order to perform the task?"

"My suitcase is in your room,"

"Go on then," Taking the coffee with her, Anstice let her fingers brush over John's hair as she passed. The doctor watched her go, smirking as her fingers lifted a glass stirrer from the kitchen table. He was sure the action wasn't lost on the detective, but John waited for a reaction rather than mention it – prolong any sort of verbal abuse for the day. Instead:

"John, for your sanity's sake, I strongly suggest your opinion of my sister never strays from 'platonic'," said Sherlock in a dry tone after his bedroom door clicked shut. The doctor blinked, taken back, but returned to the Guardian without further commentary. In a kind of spite, however, John gave the young woman an appreciative once-over as she rushed from the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is the product of a Skyfall-Casino Royale double feature with my sister in the midst of reading The Memoirs. Good luck, my friends.


	2. The Bond Complex

Anstice had sorted everything out with Mrs. Hudson that fist morning. The older woman was beyond happy to rent 221c, as well as understandably bewildered at the other Holmes. One could only expect such a reaction when a previously unknown relative simply appears from out of the blue. John had heard her bustling about 221b's kitchen as he left for the surgery the next day; half-raving half-ranting to Sherlock about the lovely Anstice, how she wished he would talk about his family more, and how he could've ignored telling them about the girl.

"Frankly, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock answered smoothly. "My sister doesn't enjoy being the center of attention to begin with,"

The doctor departed to: "You never even mentioned her, let alone that you were Scottish, young man! Hard to believe a sweet woman like that and you are remotely related. Makes me wonder how much I really know about you!"

Didn't they all? Wonder, that is.

John, however, did not expect to return to all three (known) Holmes children arguing in rather snappish, but refined mannerisms. Mycroft was currently barking at the youngest:

"Were you really expecting to be able to begin almost two weeks in advance of schedule? Potentially ruining a year and a half's worth of investigation, wasting thousands upon thousands of pounds, mussing up the entire operation, and all without my express approval?" John had never seen Mycroft so worked up over anything. The British government, normally delitescent about intentions, was flushed with rage. The terse atmosphere - all siblings poised to fire nuclear verbal abuse - didn't seem inclined on improvement.

"I didn't think that the Vienna conference would end so… abruptly," Anstice drawled. "And it hasn't gone sour yet. I've just gained more time at the hospital, to observe the targets. Isn't that an unintended benefit?"

"It's never a benefit unless it's to the absolute letter, Stasi," Sherlock chimed in. "I thought you'd know that after working with our brother here for nearly four years," The girl huffed, shifting her weight –her hips moving from side to side in her well-fitting black pencil skirt.

"Mycroft, couldn't you be yelling at me in your office?" she sighed.

"It would make more sense seeing as you've already rigged the flat up for your viewing pleasure. Anybody with a common infiltration strand could listen in," Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, lounging in his armchair. Anstice was standing, leaning against the desk, with unwavering eye contact held on her eldest brother. Mycroft's demeanor continued its incalescence, evident in the tension spreading across his limbs.

"Maybe the target's listening; that'd be worse than some bored office worker or an intern experimenting,"

"So many mistakes, dear brother… It's probably all gone to shit as we speak because of this overly-protective driven discrepancy. Maybe little Stasi has to dye her hair and jet off, not to be seen for three years, all over again,"

"And just when this little family reunion was getting all wound up - ,"

"Will both of you grow up?!" Mycroft finally shouted. The little ones had gotten to him, as they so often did as children. The proud man was on the fringes of disheveled, his siblings appearing practically elysian. Anstice was having a hard time keeping a straight face. Mycroft was having an equally difficult time maintaining parental authority. Sherlock adopted a haughty air. From the front door, John caught Anstice's eye for a second – Sherlock had already noticed the doctor come in but didn't offer outright acknowledgment. The detective made to speak (probably to insert some smarmy commentary), but Mycroft was having none of it.

"Not a word, William," was spat out through gritted teeth. His voice was a strained, dangerous hiss that neither Anstice nor Sherlock flinched at. "Not one word out of either of you; and, yes, Anstice Cornelia, that includes you,"

John couldn't help himself. "William? Your name is William?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "William Sherlock Holmes, yes… In an effort to distance myself from our father as much as humanly possible, I have refused to be addressed by our mutual given names,"

"One would think that the good doctor, of all people, would know a little something about odd names," Anstice muttered. Clearly, both were accustomed to ignoring Mycroft and vice versa.

"And 'Anstice Cornelia' isn't odd?"

"I never said it wasn't, Will," Anstice quirked an eyebrow at the detective. "Mycroft, weren't you berating me?"

"Not any more, Anstice. I have more pressing tasks, such as reevaluating your presently quisquilian mission," He sniffed, resuming his collected, pompous air. Somehow, that bit alone made half of those gathered feel worlds better. "You will be in my office promptly at nine tomorrow morning,"

The British government spun on his heel and marched out of 221b to his sister saluting him with a very sarcastic "sir, yes sir". The front door slammed and Sherlock practically leaped from his spot, tossing his coat on.

"Excuse me? Where d'you think you're going?" said Anstice, miffed with arms folded.

"Lestrade's got three arson victims in Hackney," Sherlock tightened his scarf about his neck, shooting John a knowing look. The doctor responded with a questioning expression. "Yes, I know it's less than exciting but I can't have my brother thinking I've got nothing on. I couldn't take another one of his solicitations… Stasi, I'd get down to the morgue if I were you. You may even get to read Molly's notes,"

With a heavy sigh, Anstice marched off to find her coat and mobile. Sherlock obviously had no intention of waiting for her, speeding down the stairs after her and making a beeline for the sidewalk. The cabs were slow to stop that evening and the dark-haired man's patience was wearing dangerously thin. John and Sherlock were just pulling away as the young woman exited the building headed towards the tube entrance, raven curls flying.

"Sherlock," John began after she disappeared from view. "What exactly does your sister do for a living? Outside of put up with Mycroft more than you?" Sherlock cast a glance at the doctor and retrieved his buzzing phone within the Belfast coat. He answered after a spell:

"She's currently on as Molly's assistant mortician, if you can believe it. Remind me to request her for cases so we don't get landed with Anderson,"

"That doesn't answer my question,"

"Were you expecting it to?" Sherlock clicked away at the screen. "Surely you have ideas, John – deduce," John was silent: half- thinking and half- forcing himself to leave the game alone. It was late and the ex-soldier wasn't about to go get verbally beaten to death. Sherlock let out an impatient huff. "Fine; you mentioned liking James Bond films, didn't you?"

John laughed: "Anstice is not a spy. She can't be,"

Sherlock made no attempt to reply and John let the conversation drop, thinking his flat mate was acting more ridiculous than normal. They sat in companionable silence for the rest of the drive. The doctor grappled for any conceivable way the resident of 221c was more than simply Sherlock's sister; more than an assistant coroner. The cab slowed to a halt just outside of the temporary police line. As the men ducked under the tape, Sherlock added:

"She's asking to be called 'Corine Hastings' whenever we see her outside of the flat – for future reference,"

She had been five years old when the boy with the unruly dark hair shoved a dead rat at her.

"Do you want to help me?" She hadn't noticed the way he wouldn't look at her straight or how his whole demeanor was tensed. No, that all came later, when she was old enough to realize that her broher had actually come to take a liking to her. What she noticed right then was the disgusted face her mother as she shooed relatives from the kitchen and that the dead animal didn't make her wretch. It made her… curious; had her brother found it that way or did come to a more gruesome end? What kind of help was Sherlock talking about? Would they cut it open? Anstice subtly leaned back from the rat.

"Sure…" She had said, her voice a bit shaky. It was enough to make his blue eyes snap to her. She wouldn't think of it until later, but Anstice would admit later that her brother always had an unhinged quality, but the brilliant sort unhinged; the epitome of 'mad-genius'.

"Excellent!" He grabbed her wrist with his free hand and began pulling her past the droves of relatives to the stairs. The women shrieked and complained as they ran past. They may have even gotten their first collective disapproving stare from Mycroft. It didn't inhibit the feeling of anticipation spreading over her senses, making her feel warm. "I've already set up a space, but I need a helper. I guess because you're my sister that you'll do,"

"Thanks for coming in on such short notice," Molly smiled gratefully at her second in command. "I'm having trouble ID-ing some of these victims,"

"Don't think anything of it," Corine grinned, pulling her black hair into a tight bun. Nodding, the senior coroner led the way to the three victims in the back room – or rather what was left of them. Two were men, one with significant smoke damage. The third was a woman, but totally unidentifiable. Her skin had the appearance of burned paper, curling and cracking to reveal a dark crimson under-layer. Corine chewed her lip as she yanked on a pair of gloves, pouring over the woman.

"From left to right, they're Richard Evart, David Leigh, and –for now- Jane Doe," Molly said briefly before they both began their more thorough examinations – Corine working on the woman and Molly on Leigh. All the while, Corine mumbled to herself, making tiny notations in a notepad.

After about ten minutes, she called: "Molly, I've got something,"

"What did you find?"

"A few things…" Corine passed over her notes, pushing her glasses up her nose. "Rayon dress and a cotton shirt; I'd say she was dressed to be as flammable as possible. There's enough of it salvageable that I tested it and it's coated in gasoline. And I think I may have a way of getting a positive identification,"

Molly nodded in response, motioning for the other woman to continue.

"Her left hand isn't as badly burned as the right. So, I was thinking that I could rehydrate her hand," Corine explained excitedly. She bobbed a little as she spoke. "It's a long shot, but it's been done in Califor-,"

"Please," Molly smiled encouragingly. "I'll just entrust that to you. I'll just get the other two boxed up, so when you're done you can go. I just got called down by the Yard to take a look at the fourth body. They can't move it because the… organs are spilling out,"

"Oh, okay!" Corine answered enthusiastically. "I probably won't get results until tomorrow; takes twenty-four hours and all. See you later then!" Molly gave her a small wave and disappeared into her office. When the main door of the facility clicked shut, Anstice placed the fake glasses on top of her head and pulled out her mobile. In a moment, she had lost the abnormally chipper tone of Corine Hastings.

"Hello, is Gatewood in? Thank you – tell him it's Persephone… Evening, Cavalier. Just letting you know that I've landed a job… Mhmm. I'm close to the mouse. It's a shame because she's so sweet," She paused for a minute then added: "Would you be a doll and pass that along to Queen for me? Thanks, love,"

Molly stood out in the hall for a few minutes, then began walking to the computer lab downstairs. She hadn't gotten a call from the Yard, but she figure this "Corine" could handle an hour or so on her own. She was certainly capable enough. Besides, Molly had bigger things to attend to than an over-zealous assistant.

"Hullo?" A thick voice slurred over the receiver.

"Nice to see you're awake, Sebastian," Molly replied, vaguely amused. "Is Jim there?"

"Of course not,"

"Fine then; could you tell him something for me?" There was a pause on the line and a slow exhale. "Alright – remember when he was talking about the possibility of government interference? Well, it seems the prediction has come true. I think she's my new co-worker,"

Moran: "Yea, no problem… Want me to look into a name for you?"

"Sure… Corine Hastings," She heard the tapping of a laptop keyboard.

"Nothing, sorry Mols… Got anything else?" Molly thought for a second.

"She's got a tattoo on her wrist, but it's in Chinese. I'll send you a picture," Molly quickly scribbled down her best impression of the characters, snapped a picture and sent it off. As she waited for Moran to call back, she checked the door of the computer lab, truly expecting someone to come marching in at that second. It was suspiciously quiet, the phone vibrating on the table making her jump.

"You won't believe this, Mols," Moran said.

"It worked? What's her name, Seb? Tell me!"

"They're numbers – the numbers nine, four, and two. A quick search brings me to Anstice Holmes, agent 0942 and 'Persephone' to the Americans…" Molly waited. "Wow… you'd think they'd be smarter than to leave all this info up,"

"It is a private database – we just have all the right keys," The man, in his typically atrabilious manner would've probably have dismissed the name otherwise – at least that's what Molly believed. Instead, Moran chuckled – the atmosphere slowly felt darker.

"Or SIS is getting slow. It seems that the Holmes family has a keen ability to work themselves into all kinds of trouble. Almost as keen as their reasoning…" The conversation tapered off there. Molly took a breath before pulling out her laptop and scouting out strategic points for sniper fire in London. Good rooftops, balconies, the works.

Maybe on the weekend the government planned on hosting members of the United States and Israeli intelligence bureaus?

Jim would appreciate that level of internal chaos.

Four and a half months earlier

If Molly Hooper didn't want to work for James Moriarty upon the first offer, the least he could do was give her a few harmless incentives - even if they had finally agreed to something of a work contract.

"To help you along with your morgue. Best of luck, JM" He had penned in neat script on his favorite Bohemian stationary. It was the thick, lovely kind that only princes and kings used to use. All his letters, along with his gifts, contained little puzzles. Simple riddles, nothing too superfluous or difficult to draw attention to themselves but enough to make Molly forgive James for his outburst when the job had been rejected.

The body had done the trick - just like that. Molly had solved the mystery death; quite brilliantly, he might add. The next day, he received a text in response:

Are you going to do this every week?

He chuckled under his breath when he read it. Sebastian, polishing the butt of his prized Winchester 70 rifle, rolled his eyes. A 'business associate' of theirs sat slumped in unconsciousness, awaiting the next phase of his torture.

'Patience, Molly' had been James' cryptic response.

A few days later, two gruesomely beautiful bodies appeared in Saint Bartholomew's morgue. Two successfully-solved crimes later, Molly Hooper's morgue was trustfully in league with London's police force. That was the day dear, sweet, surprisingly-not-mousy Molly had agreed to an alliance with the world's only consulting criminal and his sidekick, the best sniper Great Britain ever dismissed from the armed forces. Three days later, James Moriarty's phone buzzed and his life got a little less boring.

Met Sherlock Holmes - Molly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you are enjoying and are not to confused at this time. All will be revealed sooner or later so hang in there! (This is only the second chapter, we've got 6 more to go...). General update: I will be actually able to update in the foreseeable future because I'm about to hit exam week and that means a lot of otherwise wasted free time. Hopefully it will be put to good use!


	3. The Crafty Professor

"What is it that you do, Anstice?" John asked the morning after the incident with Mycroft. The woman sat cross-legged on her chair at the for-once-clean kitchen table, hunched over the Times. The newsprint was spread flat before her and both hands clutched her coffee mug. She peered up, tired glacous eyes giving her a drugged, sensual appearance.

"I've never mentioned it…" she trailed off, sounding distant to begin with. She brushed a stray curl out of her eyes. The black tendrils were left down and pouring over her shoulders, pooling on the article if she bent too close. Though she was already dressed, she was wearing Sherlock's red dressing gown. John guessed that she stole it, just like Harry used to nick his dad's sweaters in high school. The doctor was surprised the detective wasn't raising hell over it.

"Well, Dr. Watson, that depends," The woman picked up as she set her mug on the table. "Do you want to know what I do in reality, or what I'm currently pretending to do?"

"How d'you mean?" John raised an eyebrow. 7:15am was a little early for mind games.

"I'm an actress because my occupation requires it. Would you rather know my cameo character or my starring role?" The girl batted her eyelashes flirtatiously. John swallowed, glancing over her head for a half second.

"I'd like to hear both, for the sake of knowing you repertoire," The younger Holmes leaned back in approval, chewing the inside of her cheek. She took a long swig of coffee before answering, casually examining the doctor.

"I'm supposed to be Corine Hastings, a young lady who works at Saint Bart's hospital. She's a little scatter-brained, but sweet all the same. As you are well aware, in reality I am Anstice Holmes, daughter of the prestigious Cyrille and William Holmes, sister of two of the most powerful men in Britain, and server of Queen and Country," She paused, then said: "You understand the sentiment, Watson?"

John smiled slightly, disbelieving. "No kidding?"

"I've just gotten back from Marrakech and lived in Amsterdam for a few months before that," Anstice swallowed the remainder of her coffee. "So, no kidding. Any more questions?" John shook his head. "Well, answer me something: how close do you keep your gun?"

The man thought, giving her a strangely scrutinizing stare. Anstice stood in the meantime, placing her mug in the sink. Finally: "I keep it on me, sure…"

"Perfect. I imagine that will come in handy sometime soon," With a quick nod, she vanished out the kitchen door just as Mrs. Hudson was entering through the front.

"Where's Anstice rushed off too?" The woman asked, sounding a bit disappointed. She muttered something about the young woman being 'exactly like her brother'. John glanced up as she entered the kitchen, opening his mouth to answer her, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"She's meeting with Mycroft," Mrs. Hudson bustled out to speak with the other man, but returned to the kitchen looking rather put-out. Apparently, she was hoping to invite all three of them to lunch that day. John offered a seat to her at the table and fixed her a cup of tea.

Within the hour, Lestrade had gotten hold of another crime scene – only a half burned body but the arson wasn't the official cause of death and the crime scene was more complete than the earlier ones. Sherlock had said that serial killers were the best because they always messed up somewhere, so John wasn't surprised when strung out cases ended that way. He also wasn't surprised when the man sped about the flat when they got word. Sherlock was off like a shot, the good doctor following faithfully behind.

Anstice idled outside her oldest brother's office, pacing every so often. The girl – Anthea – had abandoned her post as secretary after ten minutes. Anstice couldn't blame her entirely. Anything was more exciting that being around Mycroft full time. face

Another difference between Sherlock and Anstice was that she didn't despise Mycroft. She had quite an assembly of reasons, but somehow the nine-year age gap and several arguments when she was a teenager didn't convince her. Sherlock's reason was better – a very physical argument over his cocaine habit. Mycroft had taken a quicker likening to his sister than Sherlock. She once had a habit of crawling into his lap as a toddler while he was reading. He always let her curl up, sometimes reading to her or smirking as she nodded off. He'd gotten her this job, so Anstice occasionally felt like she owed the man.

In short: Mycroft never forced Anstice to play pirates on a rowboat in the family pond and push her in whenever she refused to walk the plank. Sherlock still teased her for screaming so much – even if she was five.

"Anstice?" the woman in question snapped to attention. Mycroft stood in the doorway, watching her closely. Normal people would be bothered by this, but Anstice was used to be examined by her brothers – it was somewhat how they showed love. With a weak smile, the woman followed into the office. The man strode to his desk and picked up a file folder. He held it out. "I promise to make this brief,"

"The mission is going forward, then?" Anstice asked, voice pleading slightly. "I really don't want to go back to Morocco…"

"If you'd be going anywhere, it'd be home. Mother is starting to assume you're dead," said Mycroft, dryly. Anstice sighed and glanced through the packet.

"Since when have there been four threats?" She asked incredulously, rifling through the papers.

"Since we isolated the fourth three days ago, Anstice," Mycroft sounded terse, the affects of yesterday's argument still lingering. "This is why mother taught us to follow directions; just got your alias' page up today,"

"Fine, but when did the second Israeli pullout?"

"When Agent Meninisky pulled some strings and scared her partner off," for the next twenty minutes, the conversation carried on much of the same way: always moving forward in the briefing, but still maintaining their child-like bickering. Sherlock would've been proud. By the end, Anstice was sure of two things:

Sherlock requested her as his assistant on all the crime scenes applicable.

She was having dinner with one Irene Adler on December 8th – two weeks later.

James Moriarty was more than happy with the news Molly had passed along. Who would've thought the prestigious Mr. Holmes would (unknowingly) sacrificed both of his siblings without batting an eyelash? This small nugget of incredible information was the very reason Mr. Moriarty was diverting from his schedule to visit Misses Hooper and 'Hastings' at Saint Bartholomew's hospital. He intended on masterfully charming the consulting detective's sister into drinks, maybe a dinner date or two.

But what fun is your victim if you can't play with them first?

All the petty emotions – betrayal, anger, self-hatred – created damning circumstances; especially fear. Humans were such subjects to fear. Some victims were noisy, yelling and screaming all the while hoping that someone will come for them, when in reality it just made him want to kill them faster. Others were the praying kind, quiet and hopeful; they were the most fun to kill. The pleas in their final moments sent a tingle down the mastermind's spine; those fleeting moments when they begged for mercy at his feet, pleaded like he was God. It was worth drawing out their ordeal for as long as possible.

Clear thinking was vital to survival.

Without hesitating, James Moriarty entered the morgue and donned a more distraught, alamort attitude. Molly was the first to see him, smirking slightly. He winked and Molly began the scene.

"Can I help you?" she asked, appearing so concerned that Moriarty almost believed her. But, then again, why would he?

"Yes, I was told I could come here… my brother's just passed, those fires, y'see?" James tittered, seeming unhinged by grief. So distraught by the death of his 'brother', he even considered breaking down a bit. Molly was about to answer her boss when:

"Molly! Molly! It worked! The procedure worked!" Corine Hastings came speeding into the larger examination room. Her happiness was juvenile, but James saw right through it – even more so after the woman halted and a flicker of pride shimmered across her eyes. The look melted into confusion a split millisecond. "I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?"

"Not at all, Corine," Molly waved a hand. "This is one of our victim's brother, mister…"

"Evart. James Evart," Moriarty flashed a weak grin. Corine returned a more sympathetic one.

"I'm so sorry to hear that," said Corine as she blew hair from her eyes. "You're welcome to follow me to the back room. Molly, I need to borrow your hand," She began a clipped walk.

"Why d'you need my hand for?" Molly asked as she caught up; Moriarty trailing just behind, observing. Corine held the door open for the others and directed James to the correct body with a sad smile. That smile vanished into a peppy soprano when she began explaining to Molly.

"Well, the procedure required me to re-hydrate and debone the victim's hand. But, without bones, the skin goes all floppy. So, I need someone with roughly the same hand structure to add stability so I can get the Yard proper prints," Corine said this all rather hurriedly, leaving Molly totally dumbfounded. James just watched in concealed amusement, pretending to mourn over his 'brother'.

"You're asking me to wear… her skin?" The senior mortician gasped with a note of disgust Corine, unfazed, nodded enthusiastically. An awkward smile crept over Corine's face – a kind of "sorry I'm not sorry" expression.

"I'm really sorry Molly, but you can't wear gloves either. The latex rips the skin and only three fingers were salvageable," Swallowing distinctly, Molly Hooper stared at the ceiling and held out her hand. Without another word, Corine yanked off the glove from Molly's fingers, then slowly slid on a vile looking black… thing. The fingerprints were easily taken and Molly politely excused herself afterwards – James quietly hoped the young woman wouldn't begin retching.

James waited, observing the young woman before approaching the bespectacled assistant. The man could see all the features of the Holmes brothers in their supposed sister: the detective's intense focus and eyes; there was a little brown to her ebony curls, barely noticeable unless in the harsh fluorescent light. Anstice even had Mycroft's air of pompous authority. Tall, slender framed, and concupiscible, James Moriarty began to see it as a privilege to be the SIS operative's end maker – to sit in the front row as the curtain dropped in a heap.

"I don't think I've properly introduced myself," James stuffed his hands in his pockets. Corine's gaze flitted to his face; she blinked. "James Evart, lawyer,"

"Corine Hastings, coroner," She breezed past the man, picking up another clipboard and filling out whatever form was on it.

"This may not be the right time or place, but would you have a drink with me when you're finished?" James mumbled, regaining Corine's attention in a snap with the sheepish request. She smiled - a bit too shyly for his tastes but it would've done the trick on an ordinary person – and began fidgeting with a strand of hair that had slipped out of her ponytail. James had to admit that Anstice's acting skills were to be reckoned with, however not nearly skillful as his own. Maybe in another life, the consulting criminal was a great Shakespearean actor…

"Me? Really?" The girl stammered. James nodded, his smile spreading encouragingly, making his appear more confident. "Okay, I get off at five-forty,"

"Meet you out front?" Corine nodded. The pair said their awkward good-byes and James showed himself out. A second later, Anstice had her mobile out to send a text.

To: E. Meninsky, R. Gatewood, M. Holmes

Got a date with the Professor

A.H. 942

Saint Bartholomew's hospital – 4th floor

When Moriarty entered the upstairs lecture hall, Molly remained silently awaiting his reaction. The man outstretched his arms; a magician pausing for applause. Molly's hands shot up to her mouth to hide her excitement.

"She agreed?" The Undertaker breathed

"Of course she did," The Professor chuckled, only a touch condescending. "We're going for drinks later," Molly nodded, not very jealous considering how he took her out at least once a week. Since Moriarty became the go-to man for any resident of the deep internet, the trio hadn't been hurting for cash. In fact, they were practically swimming in excess funds. The brunette didn't understand how she'd come to be attached to a man so far beyond the pale – so distant from those she'd sought the company of in previous years. He was mad and ridiculous and unexplainably wonderful and had left the young woman more starry-eyed than her first encounter with Holmes the younger. Molly Hooper was sure there was not a word in the English language to accurately describe James Moriarty.

"So… how long before you have her taken care of?" Molly approached the man – her boss and on-the-side lover. He stood considering the question, but after a minute he shrugged. James held out a hand for her.

"Won't be more than a month, my dear," James bent, brushing his lips against her knuckles. "Now, why don't you make your way back? I have to go contend with our mutual friend because I've just had the most brilliant idea."

Crime scenes were new to Anstice intellectually, not mechanically. She'd had a hand in crafting some of the covert community's finest homicides, but she'd never examined anyone else's work. She always felt like Agatha Christie when she plotted out the precise details of a hit, but now she was Poirot picking the trail apart. Investigating her own handiwork sometimes came back around to her – formalities and removing all trace of the British SIS, for the sake of international relations – but deciphering another's idiosyncrasies was another challenge altogether. Granted, the bodies of five teenagers strewn across the bare floor of a decrepit attic in Hackney was not Anstice's (gun shots fired as frantically as these were too messy for the agent's tastes; she insisted on mysophocially clean deaths).

The sense that she had a leg-up over her Yard counterparts did not diminish at the knowledge deficiency. Her brothers were the best detective London had recently seen and the most unknown but important facet of the British government, respectively; not to mention she was a spy. This newfound, coursing feeling of genius – this was what Sherlock so selfishly lived for, fed on. And now, she couldn't really blame him. It was exhilarating. But, Anstice could frustrate him endlessly; make him realize what a damn mistake it had been to request her assistance. Besides, Corine Hastings was a rookie in every sense of the word. Sherlock couldn't be too harsh on her.

As it happened, he could – very easily.

"For God's sake Lestrade! Do I have to play teacher to every abhorrent examiner in your investigation?" Sherlock yanked Anstice forward by the piece of coat between her shoulder blades. After the natural surprise wore off, Anstice took immediately to scowling at her brother. Oh, the bit of nostalgia that swelled in her chest when the pair became eight and 10 again, if in attitude only.

"Let go of me!" She exclaimed, wriggling in Sherlock's grasp. With a sharp push, Anstice stumbled and almost fell in to the Detective Inspector. She offered a muffled apology before returning her glaring gaze to the detective. "What's your problem?"

"Clearly juvenilely minded," Sherlock's verbal scrutiny was just starting to kick up. "If would you get a half-decent examiner, your status at the Yard would improve immensely, Lestrade. "

"I haven't said two words, but to you I'm an idiot? Who died and made you king?" Anstice spat, arms crossing defensively in front of her. Sherlock didn't reply – something all found unusual – but did shhot the girl before him an expression of deep-rooted contempt. Swallowing her laughter at the absurdity of the display all the Yarders were believing, Anstice huffed past Lestrade, Dr. Watson, and her brother and headed up to the main crime scene. Stepped deep into the room, around markers and tape, the young woman waited for the three men to appear. She began rattling off information as soon as Sherlock, predictably last, appeared in the doorway.

"Drug paraphernalia under the bed, likely related to a nasty heroin habit the young man by the closet had. Seems like he convinced the others here to try too. Haphazard gunshot wounds and resulting bleading is the cause of death in the three on the bed. The girl on the floor at the foot of the bed died of blunt-force head trauma. The killer, our heroin addict, smashed her head into the footboard. The blood present is consistent with the head wound. After taking her out, he died of a self-inflicted bullet shot into the soft palate."

Gesturing about the room with a wide sweep of her arm, Anstice signaled that she was finished. In silence, they all awaited the certain scrutiny. No doubt it would come. Sherlock paced the room for half a minute, taking in everything. He paused at the window and pulled a miniature magnifying glass from his coat pocket. Straightening finally, Sherlock turned towards his sister and the woman braced for the torrents of disparagement.

"Where is the sixth body?" Sherlock began, gaze moving to Lestrade. Anstice's eyes flickered to John and she smirked. The alienation treatment had begun. In the meanwhile, Lestrade appeared perplexed.

"There is evidence of a sixth person, but no body. We're checking into hospital admissions and emergency calls in the last twelve hours." He replied quickly, despite obvious confusion. Sherlock let out a breath, irritation washing over his face. The man was in fine form this afternoon, if a bit out of character.

"Did you examine the iron fence out front? Did you see the amount of blood pooled and smeared around it? Did you even consider looking at the window?" The dark haired whirled on Anstice and marched forward, now only an inch from her. Genuinely surprised by the sudden proximity, she grappled with trying to form a coherent thought but was cut off by Sherlock's next tirade. "I bet you thought you sounded brilliant a few minutes ago, but could attempt to deepen your mental capacity so as to not force me to regard you any lower, Ms. –

"Corine Hastings,"

"Ms. Hastings. Please assure me you're a semi-competent person." Anstice swallowed and shrunk back.

"You mean to say the sixth person fell out the window… and was impaled on the fence?"

"You didn't account for the amount of blood on the fence, did you?" Sherlock retorted with a look of haughty victory. Blood simmering, Anstice would've slapped her brother under any other circumstance and probably would've in front of Watson and Lestrade (they wouldn't be so shocked, she imagined). Yet, something told her that acting professional was a bit more important for the time being. She'd probably give him hell over it later, if it so suited her to. Instead, she built an emotional levee and said:

"Show me what you mean."

Taking her by the shoulders, Sherlock moved Anstice over to just in front of the window and began going through the motions of what had happened the night before. The teenagers meet up in the attic of the abandoned building quite a lot because they were all on the bed and clearly comfortable with the room. They'd stashed the paraphernalia under the bed, probably because a set of headlights had passed by, but left it close enough to retrieve. They were all in the full swing of their highs when - as Watson put it – something happened. The dead body of the shooter had skin and blood under the nails, the same against his front teeth.

There were 3 girls and one other boy currently in the room – that couldn't be right because all the girls would've had dates. That would've been the only way they would've come, judging by the style of their clothes. None of the girls had scratches on them, so it had to have been one of the boys – conveniently the boy whose body has not been found.

"But why would the killer scratch the sixth victim?" Anstice asked, still standing exactly where Sherlock had placed her, arms crossed and annoyed.

"It was accidental." Sherlock answered, earning himself confused glances. He sighed: "Do I really have to explain everything…" Reminiscent of a spoilt child, Sherlock swept back over to his sister. He grabbed her upper arms and pulled her forward, nearly to his chest. Anstice didn't react because she had asked for this – literally. "They were high, the killer fancies kissing the third boy and does. He accidentally scratches the upper arms as he tries to hold on to the recipient, who is struggling against him. It finally ends and the third boy hits the killer, scrapping his knuckles or wrist on the teeth. Stung by the reaction, the killer retaliates as such -"

Sherlock strengthened his grip on Anstice, leaned into her and pushed her back towards the window. The window sill and its splinters caught the back of Anstice's knees. Her hands flew out in front of her to scrape at the wall, trying to keep her from falling backwards. The black iron spires of the fence grinned up at her and she felt fear shoot through her spine. Turning her head back, a gasp escaped her lips as Sherlock fisted the front of her shirt and pushed her back farther.

Anstice let out a sharp scream as the other two men in the room shouted after her brother.

Breathing hard and feeling the fingers still securely around her arms, Anstice felt hysterical laughter bubbling up in her. Sherlock pulled her back up into the room, watching her curiously as she let the wall hold her up. The sound of her laughter rang in the deadly quiet room for a few minutes. Anstice finally calmed down enough to force out a few strangled words.

"Never do that again,"

"So, how long have you been in London?" James sipped his gin and tonic idly. Anstice Holmes drummed her fingers against the glass of her Old Fashioned, leaving dots where the pads pressed into the condensation.

"A few months now. I lived out in Norwich for a bit, but grew up here… you?" Her act of Corine Hastings was becoming more and more compelling. It was akin to watching the last starring role of a very fine actress. She had the same enthralling aura as her brother, but Anstice was more versatile a little more fun. James would actually have to go out of his way to devise an appropriate trap.

"London born and raised…" James flashed a smile; Anstice blushed and looked down. She fiddled with her bracelet, the glass beads glinting in the low light. For the high-brow cocktail bar, the pair looked a tad underdressed. "Something's just occurred to me, Corine,"

"What's that?"

"You're in many ways like Persephone," He let the words settle, watching the wheels turn in her brain. The woman's expression wouldn't have changed in the eyes of a normal person. The master if casuistry, however, had caught on to her blinking patterns, the subtle alterations in breathing and posture. He'd struck a nerve. Anstice managed to compose herself, but the blood draining from her cheeks was the nail in the coffin.

"How so?" Her voice was shockingly stable. James easily deduced her thought process: Anstice was hiding behind the idea that James was a simple deipnosophist and it was just a risen topic of conversation. Maybe the man had an acute interest in Greek mythology. She was fooling herself if she thought the scene would hold up.

James held his pleasant façade. "Well, being a coroner, you're kind of the Queen of the Dead," He paused. "You get to decide how any old person dies – after the fact, sure, but you still have some say,"

"I've never heard that… comparison," Anstice giggled, unease spreading from her chest to her extremities. Her fingers twitched, itching to feel the comfort of her handgun's grip against her palm.

"You never seem the least bit disturbed by what you do either," He tossed back the last of his drink. "Commendable, but y'know how people could see it as shifty – "

"I know what you mean," She mumbled, taking a slow sip of her drink.

"Oh, I certainly don't. In fact, I find you rather attractive," James let his eyes trail over her figure. Clad conservatively in a navy blue skirt, navy and white striped shirt, and red flats, Anstice probably thought she wasn't showing anything off. To the man watching her, however, she was exposed.

"Well, thank you…" She flushed pink.

Anstice was left off at a flat that wasn't her own at around eight-thirty. James Evart left Corine Hasting with a mobile number (prepaid and disposable, for certainty) and a peck on the cheek. James Moriarty left Anstice Holmes with her first warning and a deep-set chill in her spinal cord.

To: R. Gatewood, E. Meninsky, M. Holmes

The Professor knows we're passing notes.

A.H. 942

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to you all who have been reading, (maybe) enjoying, adding this to your favorites, &c. It means more than you could possibly imagine. I'd like to apologize here and now for what I did to Molly around the middle there. That bit I adapted from The Closer because I really wanted arson and really needed a way for Molly to leave the room... I love her and wouldn't have her do something like that if it wasn't at least a little bit necessary. I'd also like to apologize for calling Moriarty "James"; somehow 'Jim' just doesn't seem, I dunno... gentlemanly enough for the way he is around Anstice. But that's neither here nor there...  
> SO, for the record: I do not own any part of Holmes anything (other than Anstice), including BBCSherlock, nor do I have any ownership over The Closer (That show from TNT starring Kyra Sedgewick). I am dictating this disclaimer because I did take much inspiration from The Closer (Season 4, Episode 1 Controlled Burn).


	4. West London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A re-crafting of The Great Game everyone.

Sitting in her basement flat, Anstice listened to the radio while finishing her dinner. It had been relatively quiet that evening – Mrs. Hudson came to check on her, James had set a dinner date for ten days in the future – until her brother began firing away two floors up. Without a silencer, it's pretty incredible how far the sound of a single shot can carry. There had been running up the stairs, loud arguing and then the front door slammed; at which point, Anstice rose from the kitchen table and walked to the second floor flat. The matron of the house had passed her on the main stairs, grumbling about the man.

Exhaling, Anstice flung open the door of 221b in time to witness the windows shattering and to be knocked back; tumbling down the first seven steps at the blast. Eyes sewn shut; the woman could hear Mrs. Hudson shouting for them, all previous ills dissipating.

"Stay where you are, Mrs. Hudson," Anstice called, finally wiping the dust from her eyes. Her head hurt something awful, but the lack of delirium was a plus. "Sher... Sherlock?"

Anstice got to her feet, using the hand rail to catch herself. Her nerves were firing off, sending electricity tingling through her skin uncomfortably. The door had lost its top hinge and the steps were littered with debris, but nothing was completely destroyed from Anstice's vantage point. She check around the door first, before entering the flat. Her brother was lying face down on the carpet, hands clasped over the back of his head.

"Sherlock… 'You okay?" Anstice knelt next to him, the glass sharps in the carpet prickling against her knees. She had just touched his hands when the man shuddered to life. Slowly, he got up to his knees, watching his sister with queerly. "What did you do this time?" slipped off her tongue, sarcastic.

"You're just as bad as the rest…" He muttered under his breath. "Stasi, you're bleeding," Sherlock touched just above her eyebrow, the fingertips returning stained red. She wiped away what there was left with a grimace.

"Go downstairs and get Mrs. Hudson. You'll both spend the night in my flat," Anstice stood, making for the windows.

"Why should I listen to you?" Sherlock shot back, incredulous in tone but straightening nonetheless. Anstice shot him a warning glare – a look that said 'just go'. Without another word, the man disappeared into the stairwell, his dressing gown flaring out behind him. Anstice watched him go, then immediately went to a small wooden box on the desk and picked open the lock. The good doctor thought she hadn't spent enough time in the flat to guess where his semi-automatic was, and she hadn't before tonight. The dust gathered on the spots where the oil of someone's fingers had been recently; she had imagined the shots had ended when John hid the thing.

A minute later and she was out on the street, gun in hand and low at her side. The street was relatively deserted except for a few late-night stragglers and a homeless person (or two). She imagined most people had rushed in doors at the explosion – the only remnants of which was a gaping hole in the building across the street. A stumbling drunk had managed to work himself out of a friend's grasp and both were intent on investigating. Anstice didn't even have to flash a badge – she only whispered a firm "Scotland Yard" and the men backed off.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the blast site and the routine of her time in Kyrgyzstan. The smell was the same – like propane and gasoline mixed with charred metal. It was a coincidence that she'd forgotten to take her scarf off when she got home from the hospital. Now, she lifted the fabric over her nose and mouth. She worked her way through, checking all of what remained, and then ducked out onto Baker Street again. Coughing quietly, Anstice glanced around and ran up to a woman standing stock-still in fright.

"D'you have a mobile on you?" Anstice heaved. The frightened woman nodded stiffly and quickly handed it over. The agent's lungs heaved again, forcing a sick sounding hack from her chest as she flipped the phone open and punched in a number.

"Hello?" Came a bored-sounding voice.

"Yes, Detective Inspector Lestrade," She began, gasping out the words. "There's been an explosion across from 221b,"

"Shouldn't you be calling [emergency number]? Explosions aren't really our area,"

"At least send someone – I think you'll want to get a look before the media swoops in," Anstice hung up before he had time to ask who she was. Nodding a thank you to the woman and handing back the phone, she darted back into her building, heading for the basement. Sherlock had Mrs. Hudson on the Anstice's couch, nursing a steaming cup of tea. The younger woman let out a visible breath of relief, to which her brother rolled his eyes.

"I'm not incapable, Anstice," He whispered as he strode past her, disappearing into the kitchen. Anstice assumed his position, sitting on the couch and placing an arm around the trembling woman.

"You'll take my room tonight – okay, Mrs. Hudson?" The old woman nodded, still jumpy. "That's good… let's get you to be, then," Anstice helped Mrs. Hudson to her feet, leading her to the bedroom and setting a few things straight before leaving the woman be.

Sherlock was back in the living room when Anstice returned. He had a curious assortment of things on the coffee table in front of him: a little white plastic box, a little dish of water and a paper towel. Anstice gestured with a pointed look. The dark haired man nodded to the seat next to him. Sighing, she sat down next to him and crossed her legs on the cushion; only flinching slightly when he pressed the wet paper towel to her forehead.

"Eh…I guess I forgot about that," Anstice chuckled tensely.

"I'm surprised Mrs. Hudson didn't notice," Sherlock replied with a smirk. The wound was a slice above the left eyebrow about the length of mechanical-pencil lead and was oozing thick, slowly coagulating blood. Sherlock said nothing as he worked on his little sister – how many times had he or Mycroft had to bandage her up, he didn't know. "I take it you called the yard then?"

She tried not to wince, grimace or otherwise break her poker face – too many memories were cropping up and she didn't like it. Two years and Anstice couldn't swallow the pain that accompanied recollection of one particular mission. Sherlock's fingers pressing bits of surgical tape to close the wound brought her back to reality with a jolt. He laughed at her, earning himself a well-deserved shove in the shoulder.

"So, Stasi, where were you going to put the two of us up for the night?" Sherlock asked, condescending dashed through his voice like arsenic in poisoned wine. It was Anstice's turn to roll her eyes.

"This is a pull-out," She pointed to the couch, only slightly annoyed. Sherlock had already figured everything out, she was sure, and it irritated her when he asked obvious questions nearly as much as questioning annoyed him. "Your other option is the floor or the kitchen table – take your pick,"

The man, exhaling sharply, stood and pushed the coffee table to the wall. Anstice turned on her heel, going to change. She came back dressed in a grey shirt and blue sleep pants, dragging the red dressing gown behind her. She dropped onto the mattress and lay staring at the ceiling until the lights went out. The mattress shifted as Sherlock lay next to her. Turning onto her side, the woman watched him quietly.

"Are you still dwelling on Kyrgyzstan?" he asked flatly.

"Maybe…" she whispered back. "It smelled like a gas leak, actually,"

"I'm sure you have ideas about who did it,"

"Same as yours, I imagine," A smile passed over his lips, then faded. Sighing, she inched closer until she draped an arm over his waist. He pulled one of his arms out from under her, resting it just above her head.

"Why do you insist on being practically attached to me?"

"Do I need to have a reason?"

A simple meeting; that's all it was supposed to be. A brainlessly easy meeting over the end of their tenure in Kyrgyzstan. She and Sophia had been talking about it for days: the copious praise from superiors for their observations of the protests and being part of a revolution; the possibility of more advanced work in the future; the break time, which the two women planned on spending on a plethora of places. Literally everything was coming up roses and Anstice's brain wasn't triggering the normal "something is about to go terribly wrong" signals. Now, her mother's voice rang tauntingly in her ears:

Un mal et un peril ne vient jamais seul, ma fifille.

An evil and a danger never come alone…

It was a bitter, insidious truth that slunk along what rubble remained of the embassy; a dark fog that invaded her vision until the very narrow sightline was obscured by the shadows. Anstice could hear Sophia's shallow breathing inches away from her. They had been standing next to each other, proudly beaming, when the conference room had burst apart. Searing hear had torn the air, ripping the walls like paper and knocking both women sprawling to the floor. For the sixth time, Anstice came to with a demonic headache. Her forehead was in a sensation of simultaneously being squeezed in unrelenting steel clamps and cleaved open with a blunt ax. Slowly, she remembered where she was, that her legs and hips were trapped and that she had to check on Sophia. Rolling her head to the side, she saw the woman's thick brown curls covering her face, strands floating and sinking as she breathed.

"Sophs…" Anstice called feebly, eyelids leaden again. "Come on, Sophs…" Her arm weighed tons as she dragged it to where Sophia's fingers were just visible under a chunk of drywall. The caramel skin was clayish and cooling, but the tips still possessed a subtle pulse. Sophia wasn't dead, at least not yet. It was a small comfort nonetheless.

In the half-light, a groan rippled towards her ears.

"Sophs… Sophia Dias… Wake up, Sophia Dias 'cause if you don't, you won't get any breakfast," Anstice felt a smirk tug at her chapped lips. She was dizzy and exhausted, words transforming into a stream of unbridled consciousness. She let out a slow breath and let her lids drop. Sophia probably wasn't going to answer. Yet, the Argentinean had a way of proving the Scot wrong.

"What're you makin'?" Sophia slurred in a whisper.

"I dunno… what d'you want?" Anstice answered, the ice-water of relief running in her blood stream, washing over her brain.

"French toast, with blueberries… and the five-spice syrup from Azure's, just like they have on Sunday's,"

Anstice let out a raspy laugh: "Fancy last meal, huh?"

"Who said it was our last?" Sophia's voice, though uncharacteristically mousy, was still warm.

Sophia Dias had been solidly at Anstice's side since they were paired up two years prior. Mycroft thought his sister needed extra supervision within her first year at MI6; just insurance of reliability. The brunette, almost three years Anstice's senior, had single handedly trained her – insisting Anstice participate in operations at beyond-rookie levels in an effort to force the girl up the ladder. Anstice wholeheartedly believed Sophia deserved a medal for putting up with her bullheadedness in and out of work.

They never talked about she and Miss Dias' relations, but Anstice had begun receiving emails from Mycroft hinting at workplace relationships and professionalism. Every single one had promptly been deleted and forgotten.

"Sophs, we're trapped… I dunno if they'll be able to get to us," Anstice admitted hesitantly, wary of Dias' fiery temper. Such was her conviction, Sophia Dias had the acute ability to make a boardroom of double-o's nervous when her hormones were on the fritz.

"Tell me, cariña: can you see light?" Sophia replied. The fluid calmness should've again set Anstice's teeth on edge, however, her situation had put her so far away the habitual necessity for constant analysis.

"Just barely – ,"

"Then we aren't sunk, cariña," Sophia cut the younger woman off abruptly, matter-of-fact in tone. Traces of her Spanish accent were trickling into the inflection. "Have a little faith, yea?"

The pair was totally quiet for a long while. Anstice, abdomen pressed to the ground, watched Sophia's face. The Latina had her eyes sewn shut, breathing steadily and deeply. Her fingers traced circles on Anstice's palm. The void in sound was filled, eventually by creaking of shifting debris above them. It would be a while, so Anstice took pleasure in letting her mind wander a moment. They would probably end up in a hospital before Anstice was whisked off to Scotland by Mycroft. Her mum and dad would date on her for a week, relatives would "pop by", and then everything would be arranged for her return to London. She and Sophia would go on whatever escapade they could scheme up, buying time until they were called back to headquarters – probably no more than two weeks later.

"Cariña… you asleep?" Sophia asked.

"Not yet," Anstice sounded vaguely happy. Her eyelids opened a crack to fall on her partner. That had been her pet name for over a year now – cariña. Sophia had said it meant "darling" and that she called her siblings that. Whatever they were, pseudo-siblings didn't entirely cover it. Anstice likened it to the bit of folklore that said humans are connected to one another by lengths of red string and finding one's way back was never hard because of the ties. If this was true and every road led to Rome, Sophia Dias was her Rome.

"Don't, okay?" Sophia exhaled. Anstice gripped her hand tighter in response, enticing a smile. Something in the other woman's breathing had shifted. Suddenly, it was shaky and nervous, like the rattling inhalation of a bad cold. Anstice couldn't say she was feeling any better about their chances – constricted lungs and dusty air – but every once in a while a shadow would cross, maybe pause, over the light source. Maybe there was even the tiniest chance that Lady Luck was on their side.

Artesian, Regent Street – December 8th

"Do you have a reservation, miss?" Anstice gave the restaurant a quick scan, then answered:

"Yes, but my friend is already here," The hostess nodded, making way for the SIS agent to start for the bar. Obviously, the woman being tracked for a scandal unknown to anyone outside the intelligence community would still find it necessary to avoid attracting attention.

It wasn't a task to find here, though, even as she sat at the end of the bar with red wine the same colour as her dress. As Anstice approached, Irene stood and took note of the way her black dress framed her hips and hugged down her thighs until the hem stopped just short of her knees. The dominatrix embraced the spy, careful to let her long fingernails ghost against the skin of the other woman's neck – chill bumps rising at the surprise. Amused by Anstice's forced inability to react, Irene returned to her seat.

"I was beginning to think you had forgotten me," Half her face was obscured by a compact mirror, mouth agape as a ruby shade of lipstick glided across her bottom lip. Half-lidded eyes gazed up through her thick lashes at the woman across from her. Anstice shifted uncomfortably in her dress, tracing patterns on the bar with a finger.

"Have you been waiting on me long?" Anstice was stiff. Irene snapped the compact shut.

"Of course not," A smack of her lips and she dropped the lipstick tube and mirror into her clutch. Anstice's eyes inadvertently trailed down to Irene's dress: one size too small, but she looked comfortable in it. "I always make reservations here, but this is the first time I've actually come through…" The devil's smile sprouted across her lips. "I'm surprised you all accepted my offer. So, do I get some kind of present? Immunity, maybe?"

Swallowing, Anstice said: "That depends on how useful you are… Did you have nothing better to do then have dinner with the likes of me?"

Lifting her fork to bite the prongs, though no food graced her lips, the dominatrix met the agent's blue eyes.

"Boredom is not an emotion that afflicts only the great Sherlock Holmes,"

"You've met my brother?" Anstice regained her poise, ordering a French 75 to make her more lucid.

"No, but I've heard loads about him, seen a few pictures; Handsome sort, isn't he? I bet it was hard keeping your hands off him growing up…" Anstice's gaze hardened especially with Irene's next words: "My friend, I believe he is an acquaintance of yours,"

"Ah," there was some venom in Anstice's voice though she still smiled. Her voice sounded hauntingly familiar to her mum's; something rather unsettling. "That acquaintance,"

Irene finished off her wine and casually ordered a Sazerac. Anstice coolly sipped her champagne. Suddenly Irene's smile turned genuine, eyes more intense with an almost childish nature – a child whose eyes were locked on candy.

"If you think I invited you here only to discuss my business with him, then you came with the wrong intention,"

"I hope you know I don't believe that for a second," Anstice answered casually. She sat sideways in her chair, leaning on the back rest with her fingers resting under her jaw line. She twirled one foot in the air, remaining as marmoreal as possible; maybe Irene hadn't guessed that her necklace was a wire. Taking another dainty sip of her drink, Anstice continued:

"I've already met… James and one of his accomplices," Anstice blinked. "So, Irene: be a dear and help me round out this picture," Irene's smiled faded, but she wordlessly reached into her clutch – this time extracting a black and gold cased smart-phone. The dominatrix slid the device across the grey granite counter, home screen open.

"There's a photo album labeled 'London'. Open that up," Irene intoned, swirling her cocktail. After a few moments, Anstice showed the woman the screen: a picture of a man of normal build, scruffy looking with a cigarette hanging from his lips and hands stuffed in coat pockets.

"Sebastian Moran, right-hand man," Irene sighed. "if James' hands are sparkling, Moran's are filthy," Irene let her foot rest against Anstice's calf, occasionally dragging it down as the spy drilled her for names: terror cells in the middle east, gangs in the united states, cutthroats in the Ukraine, several blue-blooded clients of Irene's. The last made Anstice's cheeks redden lightly – a trait Irene found endearing. There was something sweetly deceptive about the great detective's sister. The woman had no problem admitting she would've liked to claim that catch. Evenly matched bed-mates were so hard to come by…

At some point, Anstice applied a layer of lip gloss, making them glisten as she pursed them' as she spoke. With a fresh coat of the lacquer, they were suddenly as illecebrous as the orphic woman before her. Anstice leaned a bit forward, the fabric of her dress floating away from her skin. Her hand lingered as she passed Irene the mobile. Irene seized the opportunity and slowly leaned in to kiss the other woman. Victory surged in her veins when Anstice pressed in slightly – the evening exceeding tremendously in interest level. A second later, Anstice pulled away and released the breath she'd been holding. The air smelt vaguely of champagne, cool and light. Irene trailed her tongue over her lips, tasting the sticky gloss left there.

"now I regret ordering a second drink," Irene breathed, returning to her seat fully. Anstice smirked, perching cat-like in her seat.

"Maybe I should even it up?" The spy ran her finger around the rim of her half empty champagne flute until the crystal sang. "I'm not very hungry,"

"Neither am I…" Irene mused, swallowing the last of her Sazerac. It tasted more bitter now, yet somehow more sweet. "Well, I'm afraid I must be going now," She motioned to the bartender and signed a white slip in the black booklet.

"Oh, so soon? I was just thinking we were getting properly acquainted," Anstice pursed her lips as the other woman stood. "I'll go too, then. I've no reason to stay… anyway, I'm very sorry to say this, Irene love, but you'll start to feel light headed very soon,"

Miss Holmes' voice had reached a timbre that meant only seduction. Darkness lingered in the corners of Irene's eyes as she listened. She barely registered the throbbing pain of her head coming in contact with the granite. Her hands snagged at Anstice's scarlet coat as the owner let up a perfectly placed shriek. Irene could feel Anstice's arms about her as her body sank to the floor.

"So sorry about this," She heard a voice slither into her ear. Anstice drew her fingers across Irene's face and into her hair. "I got you on your knees and I barely finished my first glass…"

In a self-induced haze, Anstice floundered to explain what had happened to the bartender. Patrons swarmed and Anstice lost herself in the crush. The paramedics arrived, carting Irene off, and Anstice was helped from the Ivy by a faceless waiter. When the man had excused himself back to the restaurant, Anstice exhaled a puff of chilled air and pulled out a carton of cigarettes she wandered down the sidewalk, deciding whether or not to alert Mycroft. At the corner, she leaned up against a brick wall and watched people carry on.

"That'll kill you, y'know," A presence beside her said. She took a long drag and let out the smoke in a long stream, rushing it's way between her teeth like rolling fog.

"Don't tell jokes," muttered Anstice. She took another long drag and turned her head. She should've been alarmed to see James Moriarty. A smile played her lips. "James… what're you doing here?"

The man smiled back. "It's a Friday in London. What's anyone supposed to do?"

Laughing softly, Anstice snubbed out her cigarette against the brick and forced herself to stand upright. "Well, then – got plans?"

"I'll make some with you," James offered her his arm, which she took happily. "my flat's just another block from here. Would you like to see, Corine?"

"Well, since we're so temptingly close…" James laughed at her candor. How he loved what his plan had become: two games played side by side. It was gorgeous; it made him giddy with excitement. The prospect of winning both – undoubtedly he would do so – was the adrenaline rush he was missing. This girl had originally been an unwelcome guest at his party, but she made it ten times more fun.

The Holmes brothers were in for a scare tonight.

They rounded a corner onto a street lined with manicured trees and stately, expensive townhouses.

"I meant to tell you before," James stopped, cliché-ly underneath a street lamp. He turned to the young woman, pulling her closer by the hips. She suddenly turned meek; playing with her nails. James suavely lowered her hands and cupped her cheek. He bent close to her ear and whispered: "You're a sight to behold this evening, Miss Holmes,"

Nothing flickered across the woman's face, but a gasp issued from her lips when her necklace's chain snapped. James stashed the pendant in his coat pocket. Something connected with the base of the young woman's skull, throwing her balance off. The next minutes were hazy: head throbbing, eyes watering, knees smacking onto the pavement, hands clasped under her arms and dragging. Her brain switched to auto-pilot, forcing her body into defensive mode. Her limbs were sent to claw and thrash at her assailant, her throat letting sounds of exertion escape as she was yanked into the back of a cab. She pushed and struggled until James' partner was practically lying on top of her.

"Oh, love, don't strain yourself," James laughed. "As good as you think you are, you're not that good," He paused, the directed: "Finish her off; and start driving,"

A hand clamped down on Anstice's mouth and the cabin lights flickered off. A sharp pinch on her upper thigh and her limbs slackened. Her breathing slowed and the hand left her mouth to fix a fabric scrap over her eyes. Her hearing went last – thrusting Anstice into a suspended state. The woman's consciousness floated in the vaporized fear that seemed to suck her life away from her chest – to pieces drifting apart like the smoke she exhaled from the occasional cigarette.

As Anstice lay lolling in the back of that London cab, one of Moriarty's henchmen busied himself threading lengths of electrical and explosive wire along her limbs and torso, creating an extra-anatomical set of veins. In the bodice of her dress went foil-thin ignition strips. A hot-wired receiver was tucked against the clasp of her bra, linking up to an earpiece set just camouflaged behind her curls. In a last touch, her waist and hips were painted in a thin layer of napalm.

They were finished as the car slowed to a halt in front of a stylized brick building – inconspicuous, but tremendously important. Moriarty admired the handiwork for a spell before straightening her up and slipping her back into her red coat. The woman was just coming back into feeling as the blindfold was removed; the ether had done a number on her. Moriarty smack her cheek, getting her eyes to flicker open. He began before she could summon a thought.

"I will be giving you precise directions. Any deviation from them and yours will be the next hand they debone," His mouth upturned in a Cheshire grin. "Nod once if you understand, Stasi," Swallowing hard, Anstice nodded quickly. Moriarty saw her jaw clench. "That's what Sherlock calls you, isn't it? Well, don't fret, Stasi: I'll tell him you said hello… Cavanaugh,"

Suddenly, the other man was roughly dragging Anstice from the cab. She emulated a deer in headlights, pleading with her eyes. The fear was real; and it was gorgeous. She was told by this 'Cavanaugh' that she was to keep her coat buttoned until told otherwise, pushing her roughly through the main door.

Moriarty didn't wait for Cavanaugh. The man would simply slip into an alley way and disappear into London's labyrinth. Instead, he turned to the driver and very calmly said: "Let's go meet the good doctor, Sebastian,"

The car pulled away from the curb and the second game began.

The conversation between Special Agent Ryan Gatewood (also known as 'Cavalier') and Mycroft Holmes had hit its meniscus. Early on, they had established the American's place in the proceedings – tracking down the unknown member of the hunted trio, a man the CIA referred to as 'Trapline'. If Gatewood got the chance, Trapline would be removed from the equation. Likened to the assassination of Grigori Rasputin, the lack of this chess piece had the potential of easing the dismantling of the organization – whatever kind of organization that was.

Esther Meninsky had been summoned to the same office, albeit much earlier in the day, and had been told to begin scouting out the foxhole. If she could take him alive, the Israelis could have Trapline. Tied to very high-powered terrorist groups in the Middle East, the man could be very useful in that fight. That was, however, not the battle that Gatewood was concerned with. The CIA had sent him to ensure that, once the British had exhausted them, the Professor and the Undertaker could be prosecuted in the states.

Then the door swung open, enticing both men to shift their gazes. In stepped a young woman with thick black curls and a stiff walk. She was clutching the lapels of her coat with white-knuckled hands and turned towards Gatewood and Holmes with military precision. Mycroft immediately stood as Ryan was just noticing the woman's tear-streaked cheeks and mangled eye makeup.

"Dear me, Mr. Holmes," She started in a thick, strained voice. "Sending your baby sister in as a pawn… What an unfortunate choice,"

"John... What the hell - ,"

"Bet you never saw this coming..." The doctor reluctantly pulled his hands from his pockets and opened the coat, as if refusing to perform the action would make the concealed explosives disappear."What would you like me to make him say next?"

Sherlock took abnormally cautious steps towards the other man, eyes flickering about the space. The insidious sensation of being watched crept over his spine. John was repeating whatever the bomber had him saying, but the detective didn't even register it until his mouth won over his mind.

"Stop it,"

"Anstice, what's going on?" Mycroft demanded, not moving from behind his desk. Though straight-faced, the man felt a burst of fear shoot through his spine. Ryan simply sat frozen, gaping at the scene. The younger man had to agree that this was not the most desirable way to meet your colleague for the first time in person. Even while looking an utter mess, Ryan still found her striking. Anstice's muscles clenched, relaxing for half a second only to seize up again.

"You have five minutes exactly," Anstice's voice shook violently and she took a breath between every word. In every way, she was trying her hardest not to cry – he'd shorten the time if she made a scene. "Five minutes and she burns… Use your time wisely, Mr. Holmes,"

"Who are you?" The man was not known for asking the obvious question, but just this once it was deemed appropriate. The far right door creaked open, slamming after a second with a metallic scrap that made the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck raise - a cat ready to spring.

"I gave you my number... I thought you might call," A teasing voice cut through the stagnant air. Another man, dressed like he just walked out of a company board meeting, strode along the far edge of the pool. His hands were tucked into his pocket, but he wasn't waiting for directions otherwise. Sherlock's fingers came up even with his trouser pocket, an absent-minded reaction.

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

"Both," Sherlock's fingers grasped said firearm and aimed directly at the man, now facing him with an amused smirk.

"Jim Moriarty - hi," He continued his stroll along the edge. "Jim? Jim from the hospital? Did I really make such a fleeting impression?" He reached the corner and faced the others again. "But then, I supposed that was rather the point..."

Sherlock glanced at John, not daring to lower the gun. He swallowed, noticing that the laser guide hadn't disappeared. His gaze returned to the man claiming to be Jim Moriarty. Moriarty exhaled and continued:

"Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty,"

Ryan burst forward out of his chair, tearing her coat off and patting her down. The man had to move her limbs – her body was totally unyielding, but it was unknown as to if it was of her own volition. Anstice's breathing was fairly normal, a sign that she'd relaxed. A muscle on the back of her neck jumped when the CIA agent pulled her hair up, a few pieces snagging on the tape placed there. Inhaling, Ryan undid the back of her dress.

"Sir, you might want to see this," Ryan called and Mycroft snapped out of his momentary shock. The man looked deeply disturbed when he saw incendiary line taped between his little sister's shoulder blades.

"Four," spilled from Anstice's quivering lips. The tears trickled uninhibited now.

"No one ever gets to me... and no one ever will -"

"I did," Sherlock lost the dreamy voice. His eyes narrowed and trained on the bomber in front of him.

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way," Moriarty was still upholding a lovely, cheery little lilt in his voice.

"Three,"

Mycroft busied himself undoing the earpiece and receiver, the corresponding wires curled around her bra straps. Gatewood continued to examine the woman, trying to find the source and extent of the wires. Coming off his knees, Ryan placed his hands on either side of her face.

"We'll get out of this, I promise," He tried to reassure her, enticing only a weak half-smile. Her lower lip trembled, eyes blinking stinging tears and she swallowed back overwhelming terror. Her breathing became less erratic, a good sign.

Mycroft placed his hands on his sister's shoulders, his fingers stroking her curls comfortingly (Gatewood didn't notice). "Anst- Ana, I'm going to have to take your dress off. I apologize in advance,"

Anstice's shoulders relaxed as the zipper slid down. The black cotton fell away to reveal the snaking trails of wire. Blood simmered in the older man's veins; he lowered the dress until it pooled at her ankles in a puddle. Standing clad in only undergarments, Anstice felt thoroughly embarrassed. The delicate skin of her face burned scarlet; she tried not to notice Ryan's occasional glances as he untapped the lines from the woman's thighs. At one point, his finger ran across her stomach, the abdomen muscles clenching involuntarily. A gel of some sort came off; Ryan tested it with his fingers then sniffed at it. His eyes widened.

"She's covered in napalm, sir,"

"Two"

"I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems – even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play," Moriarty's glee faded, his teeth sliding across his lower lip. "So take this as a friendly warning, my dear: back off… Although, I have loved this – this little game of ours; playing Jim from IT, playing gay – did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"People have died,"

"That's what people do!" The emphasis of the consulting criminal's last words reverberated off of the old tile and the ceiling. It echoed around them until all that was left was the sound of their slow inhalations and the chlorinated water lapping at the edge.

"I will stop you," Sherlock broke the silence in a firm voice. A feeling of bravery surged through his skin and down into bones.

"No you won't," was the quick reply, accompanied by an unabashed smirk.

"I'll get the wires, Gatewood. Get the dress out of the room – coat too. I want them as evidence," Ryan nodded and race from the room. Mycroft moved about to look his sister in the eyes, a smile forming. "You won't be getting those back anytime soon,"

In the nick of time, Mycroft soon had the wires in a clump on the fire escape. The earpiece and its receiver was destroyed. The napalm was efficiently scraped off her torso. After all was said and done, Mycroft pulled an old over coat from a closet and wrapped it around Anstice. The second it was closed around her, the young woman broke down sobbing. It startled the man, watching his sister come undone in his arms, her wails breaking off at points when there was no air left to sustain them.

"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock – to you?"

"Oh, let me guess, I get killed," Sherlock rolled his eyes, answering dryly. Moriarty looked a mix of concerned and amused at this.

"Kill you? Um, no, don't be obvious," The man's eyebrows raised, tone deeply and childishly condescending. "I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it though; I'm saving it up for something special – No, no, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying…" His voice dropped and he inhaled, the action coming off as vaguely sensual. His next words possessed the same quality as poison dripping from adder fangs: steady, deadly and absolute. "I'll burn you. I will burn the heart out of you,"

The man sounded slightly upset about this fact; that bringing down the man before him would be a shame – a necessary evil. Sherlock took in the man and his attitude – he sensed something subtly cocky about the way he held his shoulders.

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one," The detective emulated the toxic tone of Moriarty.

Moriarty smiled at Sherlock, upper body straightening confidently. "But we both know that's not quite true…"

Four minutes post-deadline; Ryan had Anstice out in the waiting room while Mycroft made calls. The woman was stark silent, shaking hands clutching firmly at a glass of single-malt whiskey. Mycroft's coat was bundled around her shoulders. Every so often, the pink tip of Anstice's tongue would appear and lick her lips, dampening the splotchy red lipstick there.

"Shame this is how we meet…" Ryan chuckled nervously, hunched forward with elbows perched on his thighs. A small rustled and he found Anstice's black-rimmed ultramarine irises boring into his.

"I've been through worse, Cavalier," She took a tentative sip of the spirit.

"I can't begin to imagine, Persephone," He took a breath. "Nor do I particularly want to… d'you think he'll make you go underground?"

"Probably for a few weeks… It's amazing what you can do from a laptop these days," Anstice glanced to the door. "It's a shame my brand new Beretta has to go unused…" She took another slow sip.

"What model?" Ryan attempted to make conversation, move the topic away from what had just occurred.

"Compensated 92FS," She smirked. "Made just for me by some of your boys…" Ryan didn't have time to comment before Mycroft reappeared, standing in the doorway. His eyes found his sister.

"Would you like me to take you back to Baker Street, Anstice, or would you rather stay with one of us?" He asked, everything about his frame screaming dead-exhausted. Anstice handed Gatewood her glass and rose from her chair.

"I'd feel better at Baker Street," She glanced back at Gatewood for barely a second. "See you, Cavalier,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know I just threw a lot of information at you right there. Allow me to apologize for that (a) and also say how long it took me to write the ending scenes (with the pool and such). I won't say never endeavor to textualize an episode of Sherlock, but the pool scene was hard - I spent a good two days finalizing it. First, making sure all the dialogue was right. Then, making sure all the larger actions were accurate and (finally) doing the same for the undertones and smaller movement.  
> Sorry, but I kind of felt like bragging on myself because I can't anywhere else!


	5. The Accomplice

Molly watched helplessly as her boss crumbled to the Game. It was said before that a purveyor shouldn't play with his poison, but Jim just couldn't help himself. She played the game; she fixed the game to their liking – to their express benefit. Yet, for the life of her, she could not grasp the love of the game.

The power was tangible, as was the prowess associated. Whenever Jim talked of it, Molly could feel a tingling sensation in her skin. The nerves would turn to firecrackers. Molly couldn't foresee the grand finale that Jim was planning, so she wasn't excited over it. To her, it was like getting a notice that you were being laid off – another job gone. Yet, Jim thrilled over the anticipation of the endgame; over the demise of the detective and his baby sister.

It was more pleasurable that sex to him. It had morphed to a more exhilarating variety of entertainment than when the bloody chess match had begun.

Molly watched from the kitchen of the barely half-decent flat as Jim was in one of his delusions. Watching the man dance around the living room in his excitement was normally entertaining. That night, however, it was just depressing. He murmured and laughed, spun and jumped, but not to her.

In fact, not to anyone.

"It's like a fairytale, but I have two starring roles!" Jim thrilled, dropping on to the couch. "A villain, turn-coat, devil – what have you – and the master! The creator, the writer… God! Oh, isn't it a shame Sherlock works for the wrong sort of angels; and dragged his sister too! Pity…pity…"

Sebastian sat across the table from Molly, head resting on his arms. His tumbler of bourbon sat neglected a hand's push away, only a quarter drunk.

"Well, looks like we're gonna get screwed over," She muttered, tapping fingertips against the table.

"What do you mean 'we', Hooper?" Moran snapped, eyes finding their way to the mortician. "Across the big picture, I'm like one that gets screwed over constantly. You just string the Holmeses along and keep the boss amicable. So, if you're gonna talk about one of us getting royally fucked, then you better be talking about me or you can piss off."

Molly scowled and the sniper received a swift kick to the shin. He sucked in air, resting his forehead on the aluminum table top and fell silent. Jim's ranting had reached a peak, filling the kitchen with macabre phraseology and the accompanying delighted gasps. Resigned, Molly made her way to the bedroom.

Saturday, December 9th – 221b Baker Street

John wasn't expecting to find Anstice in their flat the next morning – let alone on top of Sherlock, who had an arm fastened tight about her ribcage and a hand toying with her curls absent-mindedly. The doctor didn't comment, but moved to the kitchen to start the kettle and skim over the newspaper for potential cases. Maybe that was a genetic habit of the two youngest Holmes children: staying motionless and soundless for extensive periods of time so that others forgot they were there. Every once in a while there was a slight shift, barely audible, but the main source of noise was the gas burner and the crackling newsprint. John sat at the table and waited for the two to begin talking, somehow feeling the inevitable presence. Neither spoke until the kettle began to whistle, cutting the stale clean in two; even then their voices didn't resonate past hushed tones.

"I feel like such an idiot, walking head-long into an obvious trap like that…" Anstice murmured. "Never before and never again…"

"I can't exactly argue with you, Stasi," Sherlock answered, sounding shockingly comforting.

"I should've known better, Will…" There was a pause, a slight rustling, and then Anstice's voice again. "And yet, you're in here comforting me and not your best friend – what's your reason?"

"You're my sister – family blood being thicker than water and all that,"

"I can take care of myself,"

"You are the one who wandered into my bedroom last night obviously distraught," Sherlock said dryly. "You're one to refuse words of concern,"

"You're incredible, you needy bastard," Anstice sighed, bitterly.

"Care to elaborate?" Sherlock immediately took to the defensive. "Aren't you the one who had a hand in preventing this? Aren't you the one that's been neck-deep in the whole organization and proclaiming that it's your duty to Queen and Country, that it's your job? If I'm not mistaken, Moriarty found you out because you managed to fuck the whole thing up!"

"And you're any better? You march around the whole damn city with this notion that you're superior because you're so hyper-aware that you know everything and that makes the rest of us utter imbeciles!" Anstice's voice rose, picking up speed of tongue. John put his article on hold to listen in.

"Yes, but am I wrong?" Sherlock: always quick for a retort.

"Not everyone can be right one-hundred percent of the time… Do you think I like how this turned out either? Do you think I like the fact that I'm confined to my bloody flat? Technically, I shouldn't be up here at all because of the windows. I can't use my phone, laptop, television – Hell, even the Goddamned radio is off-limits! And it will be this way for two weeks because I –as you so loving put it – 'fucked the whole thing up"!"

"At least you are aware of the fact,"

"If Mycroft hadn't made that crystal clear, I would probably be considered brain-dead," Anstice was an even-match for her brother's notorious word-sparring techniques. John could hear the tell-tale "clenched-jaw" tone seeping through while battling with his conscious over whether to intervene. "But you're real funny, Will; thinking that you've never made a mistake. It's another thing that you disparage us for. Not two years ago, you were shooting yourself up just like any other snotty-ass public-school kid who fancies himself fraught with issues! I'd love to hear you're argument for why that wasn't a mistake!"

"And you're little ecstasy habit during uni wasn't either?" Sherlock growled.

"I'm not in denial, like you." Anstice's words were followed by silence. John silently prayed she would quit there, but like brother like sister – she pressed forward: "If I wanted comfort and care, William, I would've gone to my brother. But, all I've got is an ex-junkie with a God-complex,"

The words stung, given by Sherlock's sudden favoring of quiet. As the gravity of her words permeated the air of 221b, Anstice retreated into the kitchen. She passed in a gust behind John; red dressing gown open to a pale pink night gown that revealed pale thighs and calves gracefully forming from a line of ivory lace at the garment's hem. Her hair was a torrent of raven-wing tresses, but marking a subtle insanity and not her normal eclectic spirit. Bare feet stuck lightly to the tile as she fixed herself tea. She hopped onto the counter opposite John, just in the right spot to keep an eye on the detective stock-still on the carpet.

"Le miel est doux, mais l'abeille pique," Sherlock called. John's head popped up - he'd never heard the man speak French apart from his occasional multi-lingual rants, but those didn't stray much from classical Latin tirades. Anstice glanced toward the living room, sipping her tea and clearly not bothered.

"'Honey is sweet, but the bees sting'... when did you start quoting mummy?"

"When her words began to garner meaning in my life," Sherlock materialized at the divider, glaring daggers at his sister. The man sauntered about, expectation in his gait; daring Anstice to continue the argument.

Anstice fed in: "In that case: les mure ont des orielles,"

Sher exhaled and sipping her drink. Dropping of the counter, she made for the door. Sherlock sprung forward, suddenly in front of her with a hand wrapped around her wrist. Anstice hissed as the hot liquid sloshed onto her fingers, threatening to drop the ceramic. The muscles in her face tightened at once, mimicking the burning glare of her brother - John could see where she'd learned it.

"Will -"

"Listen to me, Stasi," Both John and Anstice took surprise in the sincere, tender edge of Sherlock's words despite his stony facade. He was now the fixation of their attentions, but apparently oblivious to anyone outside of her. "You may want the younger Sherlock in place of the former addict you have now, but consider the opposite for a moment. I watched my little Stasi leave for her first job, but find that she'd been traded for Anstice Cornelia, the jaded pawn of MI-6... I won't say it again, but je veux qu'elle revienne,"

Appearing on the edge of tears, Anstice swallowed. Shakily she whispered: "I wish there was some of her. You could have it if there was, but there isn't ... I'm sorry,"

Suddenly feeling nauseated, Anstice begged to be let go and all of about ran for her basement flat. The kitchen scene had frozen with John left stunned and Sherlock looking defeated. In a second break, the taller man swept into his room; the wooden door shut with that notorious, echoing bang that signified a dangerously black mood in Sherlock Holmes.

John, mesmerized by all the French he couldn't understand, collected his things and departed for the surgery.

Esther Meninsky observed the young American as they began their first monitoring shift. Ryan Gatewood was not the most professional agent the Israeli had worked with in her thirty-plus year tenure, but he was tolerable. Youth was not a sign of experience, neither was it a signifier for innovation. While Ryan possessed both, something about his snarky comments would rub her the wrong way. Now, the American had taken to the Englishwoman.

Meninsky could tolerate Gatewood, but absolutely despised Holmes.

The two women had only met once before but it was enough to secure Anstice Holmes' position at the top of Meninsky's "avoid at all cost" list. She was stubborn and insubordinate and should've had the decency to defect when the Professor got her into that cab. The Israeli liked her brother, however, because he was much more respectable. Mycroft was straight forward and authoritative, garnering admiration from Meninsky even while he was some fifteen-odd years younger than her. He was organized, thoughtful, and played every chess game to the umpteenth move – just to be sure.

Anstice seemed too young to be saddled with the responsibility she currently wielded. Surely a girl of twenty-six shouldn't already be in international field-work. Meninsky needed only to cite the present operation to track down member's of the Professor's web as proof. Now, she wouldn't have to contend with Miss Holmes, who had successfully landed herself in solitary lockdown until the threat was eliminated.

Yet, Meninsky wouldn't be surprised if she held double-o status, but maybe that was just family favor.

"Esther, where did you say the perimeter for Trapline was again?" Gatewood asked over the screen of his computer.

"The A3216 and Ebury road to the river," replied Meninsky shortly. She hated how Gatewood decided he was on first-name basis with everyone upon first meeting. It seemed a little like a child calling a grandparent by their first name: the kind of excusable disrespect. The Israeli, for all intents and purposes, was not in the mood to argue at midnight, which was now tolling somewhere in London.

"That's what I thought…" Gatewood trailed off. "In that case, I may have a lead for you," Sighing, Meninsky rose from her chair and strode to his desk, surveying like a primary school teacher does students during tests. Gatewood pointed to the screen where three black dots were currently blinking on a Chelsea street map. "There've been about three unexplained murders in the area, just in the past two weeks. Each died of a single gunshot wound from a [fancy name here] sniper rifle – particularly to the base of the skull,"

"About?" Meninsky asked incredulously. Gatewood smirked, but didn't answer. "You said the base of the skull with a [gun name here]? How does one make that shot?"

"Well, only the last one was a clean shot," Gatewood stared at his superior. "I'd say someone's been having a little target-practice session,"

"It would seem so…" Meninsky rubbed her eyes and straightened back up. "Gatewood, please assess the area of decent firing locales within the ranges. And keep watching the police report while you're at it," Meninsky strode to her desk and picked up her phone and I.D. card before heading to the glass office doors.

"And where d'you think you're going, Esther?" Gatewood laughed.

"The Queen is going to alert the Major while the Cavalier ignores the temptress Persephone," she rolled her eyes. Gatewood appeared to have been slapped, half-frozen in realization. "Don't think I don't know what you think of her. Remember, Gatewood: she is the boss' sister,"

Meninsky was tempted to look over her shoulder as she left, just to see what the young American looked like floundering about like a fish. She wondered briefly if the young man could end up so stunned while in battle.

Anstice was beyond stir-crazy. She'd exhausted every pre-industrial-revolution entertainment option at her disposal: books, cards, notebooks, sketchpads, and stovetops. She had never been so frustrated in all her life and actually began to understand what her brother felt like when faced with the domestic. It was too slow, too relaxing. She could feel the guard she so carefully erected lowering, dissolving in her inactive adrenaline. It was like her brain was going to melt and run out her ears, and she would just die where she sat, vacantly staring ahead.

When she turned eighteen, Anstice had taken it in her best effort to cast of the shroud of childhood dependency. Not to walk, but to run into every challenge and fear so she could prove her well earned freedom. Now, she had been reduced to resuming the independent status of a ten year old – having food brought for her, laundry done for her. And Sherlock was still fuming from their spat nearly a week ago.

Even Ryan Gatewood had stopped their correspondence. He used to drop letters in through the mail slot to keep her up to date on what they'd done. Those stopped a day and a half ago. She hadn't slept in that time.

She lay on the couch, wallowing in her mounting boredom and self-pity – a scary practice when you knew her closest sibling – when the land line rang from the kitchen. Four times it went, stopped, then started up again. Despite the irritation, she obeyed Mycroft's ruling and didn't move to answer. But, as if taunting, her mobile joined in. The air filled with the chirps, dings and trills of texts, email alerts, and calls. The noise swirled around her like a tornado, a gust of wind that tore a frustrated scream from her lips that ripped at the flat's atmosphere. She bolted for the bathroom, barricading herself in the small space. Her claustrophobia didn't make an appearance as she sat with her back pressed against the door, rubbing her temples.

Then, just like in horror films, the whole flat went pin-drop still.

"Anstice," A voice called. "Anstice, are you alright?" Cautiously, the woman moved to her knees and unlocked the door. Cracking it a sliver, she peered out.

"John?"

"Anstice, where are you?" The doctor answered back.

"The bathroom; come through the bedroom," Anstice waited, keeping her fingers tight on the door knob in preparation for having to lock it once more. Footsteps reached her ear, continuing closer and in time the bedroom door opened. The doctor, still in his jacket from walking home, appeared in the threshold. His eyes found Anstice's suspicious ones.

"I heard screaming," John stated simply, gently. He walked to the bathroom door at a leisurely pace and lowered himself to the floor against the door frame. He turned his head sideways to hers. "Would you like to talk about it?"

The door opened completely and she sat cross-legged perpendicular to him. The fabric of her long dress stretched over her thighs and the sleeves of her grey cardigan was pushed to her elbows. Anstice's curls were more riotous than previously seen, framing her face like curling wrought iron.

"Not particularly, John," She gave a shy half-smile. "How've you been? It's been ages…"

"As good as ever; things are slow at the clinic for flu season," John shrugged. Anstice nodded and slid towards him, her spine curving to let her rest against his shoulder.

"Is Sherlock still terribly mad at me?" Anstice glanced up at him, dark blue eyes doe-like and solicitous. John smirked and wrapped an arm about her waist. She clearly didn't mind the gesture.

"He's been dead quiet since your little spat. Haven't you heard the nonstop violin music and experimentations when he wasn't racing around London?" John chuckled. Anstice let a giggle slip out, a hand flying to her mouth. John grinned warmly, getting one in return.

"I haven't left the flat in nine days, John. I've read enough Faulkner, Eugenedies, and Woolf to last a life time or two," Her words rolled from her tongue with an amused lilt. "What do you think I've heard?" John held back the pleased look threatening to escape as the youngest Holmes pressed even closer to his side. In all actuality, the young woman was practically in the doctor's lap. Subconsciously, John's hand slipped lower to rest just a hair below the base of her spine. Again, Anstice did less than react.

"So, lockdown isn't all its chalked up to be?" The doctor joked, trying to ignore the building heat in his muscles and abdomen. Anstice let an arm slide across John's shoulders, the long fingers toying lazily at his shirt collar. John swallowed.

"Tell me, Watson," Her voice drop to low, sensual tones; the same kind that illicit chills in another. "Do you like me?" As the words flowed, she snaked her other arm behind his shoulders. Her hand came up to finger the dark blonde hair.

"You're very hard not to like, Anstice," John replied stiffly. "Now, are you going to talk about why you were just screaming?"

"I think the reason has long since gone to pass…" The woman leaned in, pressing a butterfly light kiss to the sensitive flesh of the jugular pulse point. John inhaled sharply, another burst of heat shooting from his nerves into his cheeks. A faint blush blossomed, same as under the doctor's collar.

Pulling away just enough, Anstice's sapphire irises watched him beneath sparse, but raven-black lashes. The pad of her thumb swept against his cheek when the hand left his shirt and graced against his jawbone. John watched her closely, throwing all his effort into any diversion from the growing tightness of his trousers. A breath of a smirk ghosted the rose-tinted lips.

"I need a new form of entertainment," She invited with a new, obvious seduction. "Have you got any ideas, John?"

The way his name dripped warm and sweet like syrup into the air in her tenderly suggestive voice coupled with the simple implication of intimacy was enough. Another barely-there kiss and the doctor was done for. John pulled her into a crushing kiss. He let his hands rove over her warm body, tucking underneath the garments to press into the warm skin beneath. John's hands eventually moved up to rake into the thick ebony curls that were familiar and an anomaly at the same time. Anstice leaned into the floor, pulling her companion with her; legs coming to wrap about John's waist, dress hiking up. Anstice smirked against his lips as the kiss deepened.

It isn't a spy story without a dash of seduction…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thought I'd toss the next two chapters up real quick when I was bored senseless in English class. I hope you enjoy them. The sixth chapter will take a tad bit longer; a case of "that awkward moment when you realize the whole base of a certain scene doesn't really move the plot forward or deeper". My advance apologies for that. As always, please post any questions, comments, curiosities, &c. or send them to me because I am always willing to respond/clarify/answer. Seriously, though - I've hit the last four and a half days and need something to do...


	6. Priorities

Mycroft hadn't expected to find a signal emitting from Anstice's apartment, live and insistent. If there was one thing he'd learned from his younger siblings was that rules were negotiated and unenforced. In their minds, regulations were still as bendable as when they were children. It was like neither had truly cared to grow up.

Meninsky and Gatewood were centimeters from the end of Trapline's bread-crumb trail, but it was quick going stale. Anstice had jeopardized the operation enough already – most through no fault but her own. The intelligence community was like howling dogs; no more time could be afforded to waste. So, the government decided to pay 221b Baker Street a visit. Anstice, of course, had left her phone on despite not even being in her flat. Mycroft considered tossing the device onto the couch before proceeding back up the stairs; instead it went in his coat pocket. Anstice had found a loophole in the communication vacuum outside of Gatewood playing the Pony Express.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Anstice had Sherlock's laptop computer set up and logged into the MI-6 database. Ear buds in place, she merely glanced up with a nonchalant wave of the hand and continued her scouring.

"What on Earth do you think you're doing?" He demanded abrasively, the mobile reappearing to glint tauntingly in the glare. Rolling her gum with her tongue, Anstice pulled out an ear bud.

"Doing my job," Her attitude was that of an insubordinate teenager. Mycroft tried his best to stifle the rage threatening to burst out.

"You have been excused from active duty until we've isolated or eliminated the targets. The fact that you have the audacity to hack into the system just to keep tabs – "

"I found Trapline," Anstice uttered the three words, effectively cutting off Mycroft and plunging the flat into a penetrating, cold silence. The pair stared at each other for five minutes at most. Shuffling came from the bedroom – Sherlock had allowed himself to sleep for once – but the door never opened.

"How long have you had this information?" Anstice chewed her lip as she watched Mycroft's expression slip from boiling rage into the deadly undercurrent of fury.

"Pinpointed this morning at three thirty-two," Suddenly she turned emotionless, the perfect image of a experience agent. "I've had a name for almost a month.

Mycroft, seeing no painless way out of this, exhaled and seated himself in the red armchair. He waved a bored hand for her to continue.

"I've been able to get a tap on certain places thanks to Gatewood. This includes the names of the Professor's assistants through Miss Adler," Anstice rattled off. "She mentioned a man called Sebastian Moran being practically second in command. For the record, I with-held the information to allow for a timeline to progress; if they realized we were totally gung-ho on bringing them in, the would've systematically disappeared,"

"Duly noted; who's this Moran?" Mycroft had fully resumed his disparaging, dry tone. Anstice smirked.

"I ran all the background checks. He's been recently discharged from the army. He's a sniper, specialties lying in night and anti-sniper tactics. He favors a Winchester model 17 despite being trained on an M24," Anstice read from the laptop's screen. She glanced up when she finished.

"And where's this Moran?"

"I'll give you the address in full – on one condition,"

"You're of civilian status. You have no rights to negotiate terms," Falling quiet again, the woman looked like a cat that had just been cheated out of prey. Still, she persisted.

"Let me lay it out for you, dear brother," Anstice informed with simple directness. "If you reinstate me and I bring Moran, we get first dibs on prosecution. Also, according to the deal we made with the Israelis and Americans, we will then be able to mandate where he goes next," She straightened her spine looking haughty. "So, you put me on active duty, allow me to get him, and Trapline is ours,"

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, eyes still trained on his charge as he considered the proposition. Confidence was always a listed cause of failure, but … She was willing, able and possessed the necessary information. He caught the glimmer of hopefulness in her façade. Her voice, while blatantly persuasive, was clear of anything outside of logic. Just as in court, the facts stood firm.

"I'll agree, but you'll stay here until we've established some kind of operational blue prints," Mycroft, standing and straightening his coat. "We need at least one aspect of this to go right,"

Anstice nodded, saying as her brother was turning the door knob: "Chelsea Gardens, right off the embankment,"

Anstice had been ten years old when her parents decided that they couldn't attend that school anymore. Cyrille Holmes, being a well-rounded French woman and a good Catholic, had insisted on transplanting her daughter to Saint Margret's School for Girls for the remainder of her schooling; Sherlock was being transferred to [Albyn?].To think: they had finally gotten used to seeing each other in the halls.

"That's not fair," He pouted, actually glaring at Anstice like it was her fault. She scooted closer to him on the tree branch, watching the ground warily. She felt like any breeze would knock her over. "The greenhouse we found doesn't even split the difference…"

"It's not that far! I get out ten minutes earlier anyway," Anstice offered hopefully. In all honesty, she was more scared about how her brother would fare than how she would. It wasn't that he couldn't make friends but that he just didn't – one would have to extend themselves first and Sherlock would never make the first move. He seemed to consider her proposal carefully, not flinching as she grabbed his wrist with her nails.

"I don't think you'll be allowed near the place after Mr. O'Brian caught you checking on the samples –"

"We're doing something more important!" Anstice exclaimed. Sherlock's eyes flickered to hers, gleaming as he leaned closer to her. Her eyes watched the ground, ever afraid she would slip off.

"I'll have to sneak you in, won't I? Like pirates smuggle treasure,"

Anstice's nose wrinkled in distaste at that. "You're not smuggling me to the greenhouse is a wooden box, Will,"

He frowned. "Why not?"

Esther Meninsky was silently fuming next to Ryan Gatewood as Mycroft laid out the newest operation. It would've been more feasible to restart the whole bloody thing at this point. Simply because Miss Holmes had uncovered the very information that Meninsky and Gatewood had been scrounging for the past two weeks, she now was to rejoin them. They supposedly had total autonomy over whatever transpired next, but Meninsky was skeptical. So far, any plan contrived with Anstice Holmes involved was a plan not worth driving. If the woman had any sense of redundancy in her actions, the next time this trio gathered, they'd either be writing a new plan for far in the future or planning the girl's funeral. Lord knows Anstice would eventually get herself killed with that cesspool of impulse she called "experience".

Alterations at critical hours were neither ideal nor beneficial.

Gatewood, by happenstance, was more than please with the latest development. The Brit was well aware of the American's admiration towards his sister, but didn't actually care. Gatewood was more than happy to be in the same vicinity as Anstice. Mycroft didn't much care because Anstice wasn't leaving 221c until the moment of inception and no contact was allowed – Lady Justice herself dictated that the two remain apart. However irrational and unnecessarily Shakespearean it seemed, Ryan Gatewood would be Anstice's street-side watcher and would perform beyond his capability; even if it had been two weeks since he'd first met and last seen her.

The image of Anstice Holmes was beginning to fade – the dark of her hair, slight purse of lips, and her posture. The silvery sheen of her eyes was the last to dull in Ryan's mind. The scant pictures in her file didn't do the young woman justice, so Gatewood was hell-bent on his positions for the sake of getting a memory-refreshing glimpse.

"You trust her?" Meninsky blurted out when Mycroft announced Trapline's hiding spot. Gatewood glanced sideways at the older woman, nervous warning deep-set in his light brown eyes. Mycroft simply smiled.

"I have had a field agent scout the street, Agent Meninsky," His voice was lethally condescending. "Despite his best efforts to prove otherwise, it appears that the Undertaker has been seen exiting the premises of the Chelsea Gardens complex a recorded five times in the past three days,"

Meninsky swallowed her contempt, appearing even more stodgy than normal. She was kicking herself for volunteering for this assignment. If she had known four months prior that she was going to be working with an intolerable 27 year old, an American with a leisure complex, and a 36 year old man was her superior – Meninsky would've laughed and continued with the Iron Dome project.

Gatewood studied his shoes, fiddling with the watch on his wrist and then the cuff of his sleeve. The slowly increasing breathing pattern gave away his anxiety. The American watched the other two in fear of a cataclysmic event. The dread settled in his stomach leaving him jittery and nauseated.

Mycroft made note of the discrepancies as he examined each. Despite Meninsky's jaded cynicism, she possessed efficient work-ethic and deep knowledge of the old fashioned methods that always proved to be useful. Gatewood's habit of coming off inexperienced, fresh from the academy, was all a cleverly contrived charade. The young man knew the ins and outs of recent weaponry innovations and proficient in tracking – all hidden to ensure targets underestimated him grossly. This was the best team Mycroft could've assembled on such short-notice, and they would perform adequately under-fire (however literally was debatable).

They would have to.

Her father got sick the year she turned seventeen. It turned out to not be as serious as the doctors had wildly prophesized, but the care of her husband weighed heavily on Cyrille Holmes. Sherlock had been in university for just over a year and he never visited – even when Anstice called and begged. So Anstice sat in her room, the wooden floor littered with scraps of paper and worn notebooks dating back ten years; her neat penmanship highlighted with the occasional scrawl of data from her partner. Among these, intermixed, were pamphlets and application forms for a dozen or so universities and colleges.

He had always said he needed an assistant to take notes, mix things, and put burners on. He had never once asked for a copy of all those diligent minutes. Maybe he'd want them when he came home in a few days for Easter. She'd written letters and called, but conversations lasted mere minutes and correspondence inevitably fell off. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't come home at all...

Looking around her once more, Anstice carefully gathered all the evidence and deposited it in a cardboard box. Taped impenetrably shut, she had shoved it deep beneath her bed. For all she knew, it was still there.

John was on a date. Normally, that wouldn't bother the detective so much. In fact, he somewhat enjoyed the three hour long silences, if and when they occurred. However, the source of the needling was not the lack of someone to hand him a pen or fix tea; it was that John had convinced Anstice to venture back up to their flat. It was less than rare for either of the siblings – both stubborn and self-righteous to the end – to extend some matter of an olive branch so soon after an argument. Usually, they could spend months brooding.

At the moments, the young woman was in the kitchen, crafting dinner while Sherlock lay flat on his bed. The man was intensely debating whether or not to be pleasant towards his sister. Anstice, having grown up around Sherlock's mood-swings, was good at ignoring the copious amounts of shit he threw her way.

Without so much as a knock, the door swung open and Anstice appeared holding a tray of dishes and utensils, spiced-smelling food and tea.

"Evening," She trilled with a little grin. Sherlock didn't move beyond folding his arms. "I – I made Indian," The silence persisted, momentarily broken by her heavy sigh and the tray being set on the dresser. The mattress dipped and a pair of hands peeled apart the man's arms. The same, chilled fingers undid the buttons of his cuffs and rolled up the sleeves, tracing the thin track marks that undoubtedly still riddled the pale skin in all their mottled glory.

"Do you ever keep some around?" Anstice asked without hesitance. There was no doubt as to what she was referring to; lifting Sherlock's left wrist to closer study the marks. The man continued to stare intently at the shadows on the ceiling.

"Remember mummy's Persian slippers?" His voice was quiet, but still audible. Anstice made a hummed a note of understanding. There was ghosting pressure as the pads of her fingers glided over his wrists, the kind of sensation that only sensitive skin picked up. "I have a little in the one I took, but I'm considering dumping it,"

"I've still got the Altoids tin in my purse…" Anstice breathed, lightly prodding the tendons that pushed up. "Makes me feel better sometimes… prepared or something,"

"Your back-up in case the depression strikes again?" Sherlock mused in a dry tone. Amusement toyed with his mouth, but he still kept from eye contact with Anstice. "What did "What did you make for dinner?"

"Oh, um… just yellow curry – nothing special,"

"Where's Mycroft sending you?" Anstice's features pulled a mix of confusion, humor, and disdain. Sherlock scoffed at her little act. Her expression dropped in time with his left hand; she crossed her legs and played with her hair. He propped up on his elbows, finally glancing to his sister. "Come on, Stasi! You don't cook for anyone unless it's an occasion. So, what did you do?"

Anstice shifted from her hair to her hands, pulling at hangnails until pinpricks of blood bubbled up from the crevice between nail and skin. She'd picked up this nervous habit from their mother, making it a tell-tale sign in the Holmes women of nerves. Smiling to herself, Anstice tucked a stray curl behind her ear and cast her gaze to the ebony-haired man.

"I've been reinstated into the mission. We've got a lock on Moran's location and I'm leading the field operation… I sort of pulled one over on Mycroft to do it, but – "

"It was well worth it; don't explain," Sherlock sat up fully now, mildly interested and sporting a polite half-smile. He rested his forearms on his knees and stared out the window. "How dangerous?"

"I'll have my gun and four escape routes, not to mention my back-up and scout. I'll be more than fine, Sher," Anstice scooted behind him, draping her arms about his neck and perching her chin next to his cheek. "You're worried,"

"You're scared," Sherlock observed.

"How'd you guess?" the woman chuckled.

"You're acting like there's a thunder storm – touchy and all," The simple observation rendered a long quiet between them. Sherlock began to feel her breathing match his. The pressing feeling of her chest against his shoulder blades and spine began to loosen as their respirations ran in sync. Anstice leaned her head to his.

"Yet, you aren't telling me to piss off," He felt her smile. "You are worried about me,"

"I'd never tell you if I was, Stasi," Sherlock sighed. His eyes flickered away from the window to the tray for a millisecond. It didn't go unnoticed.

"You're an adult; you can get dinner whenever you want," Anstice laughed, retracting her limbs and ruffling her brothers hair. The man scowled at her, enticing even more giggles as he rose from the bed and walked to the dresser. Calmly, the man poured two cups of the chai and assembled two bowls of the curry. Anstice couldn't help speculating how astonished John would be at the scene:

Sherlock was actually being reasonable to someone, even serving them dinner. No matter if it was his little sister, the world must be at an end!

The world, however, was not descending into apocalyptic chaos, nor was Hell and all its canticles morphing into skating rinks. Swine had not taken wing, the week still held a lone Thursday, and the moon maintained its white gold sheen. Though it was hardly ever witnessed outside the family, this was the breed of affection the siblings maintained: one of mutual understanding that didn't warrant outlandish or dramatic displays. Anstice could only recall one time Sherlock hugged her in public by his own volition – their maternal grandmother's funeral and a few cousins had been teasing the nine year old girl for crying.

Anstice held insurmountable respect for her brother. Sherlock meant to protect his sister more than she thought she could protect herself.

They ate in companionable quiet. Anstice smiled to herself; John had once told her that Sherlock didn't eat unless forced. She found that incredibly hard to believe seeing as the man always ate in front of her; probably because another infamous argument when they were 14 and 16 respectively. The young woman thought about maybe taking over Mrs. Hudson's occasional role as chef.

"When does the plan go into effect?" Sherlock questioned casually over his food. Anstice swallowed her mouthful, glancing up.

"This Thursday; why? Are you going to follow me to Chelsea?" She smiled, returning to her bowl. Sherlock snickered, getting Anstice to do the same. "Okay, that was ridiculous. How about I give you all the details after; for your mind palace,"

"I can agree to that. Maybe we'll have something to hold over Mycroft until he dies,"

"What else would be the point?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it bad to think that Sherlock doesn't hate his siblings? I certainly don't, but I tend to think kinder things of horrible people (probably because I am one; in which case, I should warn you about... nah!).


	7. Ad Libitum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "ad libitum" (adj.): "at liberty"; a musical term for a piece marked by its freely moving and sometimes improvised phrasing.

Sherlock hadn't expected to literally run into Anstice, especially coming out of a grungy pub in Aberdeen. Though they had grown up there, she never ventured to the fringes. She was supposed to be in Edinburgh for the next few weeks, according to Mycroft, finishing some research project. Details were no longer directly exchanged between the two youngest Holmes siblings. He hadn't noticed, but she almost ran him down. Their bodies collided painfully on the sidewalk, but Sherlock caught Anstice before she hit the ground.

"Will!" Anstice had cried when she recognized him and enveloped him in a crushing hug he knew well from childhood. That Easter past had been the last he'd seen or heard of the girl – the argument so violent that Anstice retreated to the attic with gashes on her hands, neck, and bruised legs while their father chased Sherlock from the house. They were converging on eleven months of communicational void. Yet, she looked so happy to see him, was smiling for all the world, tittering on about nothing...

He'd almost missed it.

Her pupils dilated so that her steel blue pupils nearly vanished.

The habit had returned with a vengeance; his little sister, prattling on, high as a bloody kite.

"Stasi, can you do something for me?" He started gently. She nodded enthusiastically and didn't object as he tugged her towards a less populated side street. He tried not to anger her, but the impromptu pocket search was greeted with defense. Anstice pushed, jittering and spouting off half-sentences with childish shouted 'give it back's and 'I need that's. She looked dead scared, eyes flickering about in the manner of a prisoner looking for escape and finding none. Honestly, it wasn't like she had a gun pointed to her head.

Sherlock wasn't surprised when her nails caught just under her eye, leaving a stinging scratch marks. Eventually, he found what he was after: a blue Altoids container, filled with the candy-coloured tablets of ecstasy and stashed in an interior coat pocket. Shooting her a burning glare, he stowed the tin in his jacket.

"Give it back, Will!" Anstice yelled, bouncing on her toes nervously. Her jaw clenched funny and her fingers quivered as she clawed at his shirt front, trying to get at his jacket. "It's mine! I paid for it – please!"

"You most certainly did," he muttered, catching her flailing wrists. Her head stopped its accusatory whipping about – the familiar paranoia – at the words.

"What did you just say?" Her eyes narrowed, making them look entirely black in the low street light. A quick once over: unstable balance, flushed cheeks, the battered state of her scarf, and the tell-tale inflated pupils.

She'd been at the stuff a while.

Anstice tensed and tried to pull away, but Sherlock yanked her back forward. A yelp issued from her lips, eyes watering a bit as her breathing sped up. Her skin was burning hot and would've been mistaken for feverish had he not known better. The fury and disappointment welled up in his chest until it couldn't be held at bay any longer.

"You're a fucking mess, Anstice," He spat venom. "An absolute disaster. At least I had the good sense to finish school and try to stay clean for more than a year!"

"But you're slipping too!" She answered in a taunting sing-song. The scene they were putting on – would mummy be proud – was beginning to garner attention of all kinds from passer-by. "That's why you're so cross with me, Will! You messed up too and are taking it out on me,"

Sherlock felt the [frustration] rise into his cheeks. "How would you know anything? You're stoned out of your mind,"

"I'll tell Mycroft," she giggled madly, sounding increasingly insane as time passed like years.

"I'll tell mum,"

"Ooo, scary!" Anstice's knees bent forward and her head dropped back. She let out a cackle worthy of a mental institution. "I'll tell dad!" Her weight swung away from Sherlock as she dangled like a toddler with her back arched. She laughed even more as her brother jerked her frame up again. He hoisted her up and began walking in the direction of a main road – any main road. Anstice squirmed.

"Where are we going?" She asked for the fourth time, nails digging into his back now. Sherlock grimaced, pulling her ponytail.

"You're coming home with me where I may or may not call Mycroft," He hissed bitterly. "If you want any hope of negotiating with us when you're sober, I wholly suggest you shut up."

Sebastian Moran lived in a silence of his own these days. It was less comfortable than one might think, but livable. His mind was constantly buzzing with time figures, coordinate approximations, and wind directions whenever he even glanced at the streetscape. The fire escape, reachable by ducking out of the living room window, was the man's favored observatory of the milling Londoners below. Molly had been up with him once; she'd been spending a lot of time at the Chelsea flat since Moriarty started "deteriorating". He couldn't blame the young woman because he'd been equally as worried (if mutely so) when Jim had melted down the first time. It was nearly habitual to scout out potential targets and Sebastian was rather good at picking them, but he had stopped voicing them when Molly was around. The young woman found it sickening.

Random hits were near impossible. There were always links that illustrated the killer. The trick was making the links so scattered – even removable if one was close enough. Confusing Scotland Yard was always fun.

Sebastian took a long pull on his cigarette and rolled his sleeves up further. He picked a number out of the air – 35 – and proceeded to wait that number of seconds before choosing a victim. First: a teenage girl idling on the sidewalk opposite in a black coat. Next: an older man checking a ticket on his car, obviously displeased. Last: a small black dog tethered to a woman gabbing distractedly on her mobile. The connection: each sported a silver tag of some kind (a charm bracelet, allergy and name tags).

Trapline blew a stream of smoke and turned away from Chelsea to duck back into the flat. It was newer and nicer than the headquarters. In the hall closet was a briefcase containing his broken down M24 rifle. It had been a long while since Sebastian had hefted that kind of artillery. His grandfather had taught him to shoot on a Winchester model 70, which was his preference for most of his dirty work. The boss, however, had requested the more modern weapon for a job. Sebastian figured he might as well break it in again.

Thursday, December 27th

Sebastian Moran wasn't surprised to get a phone call from Moriarty early that morning. Pre-dawn commands didn't faze the man; a warning that SIS was closing in and coming for the man that day was not the most welcome news. After the cryptic message had been passed, the consulting criminal hung up without room for reply. That left Moran to call Molly and warn her not to bring groceries round.

"I'll probably have to learn a new address after this," she had commented off-handedly. Relocation was inevitable. Even so, his thoughts hoped that the pair of them could live together. Maybe they would finally be able to leave London.

So, Moran waited, scanning the streets until a silver Toyota caught his eye. A young woman in jeans, boots, a black shirt and brown leather jacket was being let out. The vehicle quickly drove off towards the rest of Chelsea, inconspicuous in the afternoon rush hour throng. The woman jogged across the street, black ponytail bobbing in the sunlight. At the same, a young man with sandy blonde hair crossed his legs and adjusted his sunglasses from a bus stop just beyond where the woman was let out.

The agent and her keeper.

Moran considered picking off the other blonde, but that would be boring and would tip them off that Trapline knew. If he learned anything about games in the past six months, it paid to keep them interesting and keep the players guessing. Sebastian had an eight out of ten chance of playing his cards perfectly and he only admitted that because a full ten out of ten would seem arrogant. That was something Sebastian liked to pretend he wasn't.

He watched the woman, who he now recognized as 'Persephone' – the woman James went on about at length and Molly had him search. Sebastian wondered if Moriarty would keep the scrap of skin with the Chinese tattoo on it as a souvenir. A smirk formed at the absurdity of her being there; her cover had been annihilated and yet she was put back on the mission. Honestly, Moran sometimes wondered how SIS stayed viable with all the stupid decisions they'd made recently. Either way, she was putting on a decent show, just like her brother had with the VanCoon murder: fumbling through her pockets as if searching for keys, then waiting for a moment before finally requesting to be buzzed in. This Persephone was quite the little actress – she really should've gone into the theater, or cabaret with that figure.

Pulling himself away from the lookout window, Moran walked to the bedroom. The man kept the other tools of his trade in the bottom drawer of the dresser. While he favored the quick method with his Winchester more than any other in the collection, Moran had spent the hours designing a wicked itinerary for the agents. In the top of his left shoe went a Swiss blade; the right front pocket held a pill case with two cyanide capsules; his dominant hand wielded the unusual defense of a cattle prod.

Weighing the device in his palm for a second, Moran felt satisfaction bloom in his chest and run like fire through his nerves. The sensation bubbled and built in his blood, peaking as he watched the prongs at the end crackle blue. The exhilaration and anticipation from the adrenaline was Moran's favorite part of jobs. It reminded him of his stint in the desert, playing God when God had abandoned them. Sebastian positioned himself in the pantry perpendicular to the front door. Though the half-closed door, the man listened as the lock's tumbler clicked to allow entry. The door mutely opened, shut and the figure of raven-haired Persephone appeared. She had her gun drawn but lowered from the normal ninety-degree angle.

Trapline blinked once as he moved from the pantry and smashed the handle into the girl's head.

Anstice was just turning as metal broadsided against her cheek. She hissed as the blood raced to where a bruise would no doubt form. Her attacker was exactly as pictured on Irene's phone: light brown hair and brown eyes, afternoon stubble just noticeable. He was dressed in jeans, a grey tee with a black shooting jacket. If he wasn't jamming the pokers of a cattle prod into her gut, Anstice would've thought him handsome.

As the electricity flowed into her skin, Anstice let out a choked gasp and her Beretta clattered to the linoleum floor. She pitched forward as she dropped to her knees; the gun was kicked out of the way, then Moran's shoe connected with her temple. Her vision blurred, but Anstice eventually regained vitality and swung her foot out forcing it into the side of Moran's knee. The blow sent the man to the floor as Anstice scrambled to her feet again. She backed into the living room, glancing around for anything to protect herself.

"Attack in progress," She said, pressing a finger to the earpiece she wore. There was a click and Mycroft's voice came through.

"Continue as planned,"

Anstice pushed on, engaged with Moran in a one-sided fencing match. Ducking underneath one of the man's swipes of the weapon, Anstice wheeled around him and smashed her elbow into the base of his skull. She utilized the brief moment of instability to force him to the floor, knees pressing into the shoulders. Her palm had just closed around the man's wrist when Moran flipped her to the carpet and pressing the metal arm into her wind-pipe. The woman's chest heaved as she struggled, but she finally stopped to push back against it. She relaxed, starting to pretend she was slipping under.

It was just enough that Moran began to grin madly. It made slamming her groin that much more satisfying. Moran's grip slackened and Anstice rolled away, a bee-line set for the kitchen and her Beretta. Lady Luck was insisting on playing devil's advocate. Moran's arm wound around Anstice's neck and yanked her to his chest, dropping on to his knees and pulling back as he fished around in a pocket. Soon enough, Anstice's back had met the carpet again as the sniper wrenched her jaw open. She arched her back, tensed and writhing as the man's knees dug into her elbows. Her eyes watered and her mouth went dry with fear.

In Moran's right hand glistened the dreaded cyanide pill. It just presented the incentive to stronger resistance.

"Fighting back hasn't worked for you in the past," Moran taunted, barely breathless. "If only you would just let it all be over,"

Anstice's jaw ached and she would probably get reamed out by Mycroft for lack of status updates. Hopefully, forcing one's jaw open would be and understandable cause. The woman jerked her shoulder and torso. Moran lost his grip. She bit down on his fingers. The man yelped and pulled away. Moran tried to get her mouth again, but not before she scrunched her knees up and jammed them into his chest. Anstice bashed her elbow into Moran's temple and was off like a shot, making for the street.

Sebastian shook off the blow and collected the discarded handgun as he raced after the fleeing Persephone.

The static had increased in corresponding with Mycroft's suppressed anxiety. the lack of Anstice's voice over her receiver was normal for the beginning of a mission, but this far in and during a confirmed attack was unprecedented. In all honesty, the screams of his little sister would've been more comforting than dead air. At least there would've been verifiable life signs.

"Cavalier, do you have visual?" Esther said in a clipped tone. The receiver clicked and static buzzed before Gatewood answered.

"Can't see her...Requesting permission to enter the building,"

"Permission denied," Mycroft answered, snatching the microphone from Esther's hands. The woman glared at the younger man but kept her anger concealed. Subordinate Esther Meninsky was not - and she recalled the reaction of her superior at the planning meeting. Little outbursts were not welcome. The Queen and the Major remained in the back of the beaten up black Toyota in the oppressive silence for another three and a half minutes. Meninsky had her finger hovering over the link-up button to Gatewood when both receivers crackled with voices simultaneously.

"We've got a runner. Permission to pursue?"

"Major, Queen, Cavalier; Trapline in pursuit." Esther revved the engine at Mycroft's subtle, dignified nod. The turned out of the alley and onto Gatliff, catching sight of Anstice darting through the few people on the sidewalk. Occasionally the raven-haired woman swerved into the cars. A man matched her pace almost five meters behind her - Sebastian Moran in the flesh - a wild dog stalking prey. The wake of people Anstice left behind her was like a blood trail.

"Cavalier, permission to pursue granted," Esther replied robotically.

"942: your intended destination," Mycroft quipped.

"West End via Chelsea Bridge. Visual on Gatewood. Trapline is armed. I repeat: Trapline is armed," Anstice sounded breathless, frightened. Mycroft swallowed the need to personally intervene and directed Meninsky to driver faster. A gasped ripped the air in the vehicle.

"942 - report[./!]" Mycroft demanded.

"Almost to bridge..." Anstice panted. "I've been hit. Jus' my hand,"

"We'll meet you at the bridge, just stay ahead. Gatewood might try a shot," There was a long drop, then a cough.

"He's too close and too many people; it won't work," Esther inhaled sharply at the younger woman's proclamation.

Mycroft barked: "942: status immediately!"

"Code red. Agent 942 defecting," Anstice was just coming into view as Meninsky swerved to enter the bridge. The receiver crackled again: "Mycroft, I love you and Will both... let him know, please,"

"Ana!" The feed went dead.

"Major, I've got Trapline close... What is Persephone doing?" Gatewood's receiver fired off. Mycroft ordered Meninsky to stop -fuck the horns blaring and the rush-hour traffic. The man was slamming the Toyota's passenger door when he caught sight of his sister. Anstice dove across the two lanes of traffic, hand raised to her ear. In the space of three seconds, her trench coat was off and being flung to the pavement. Next thing he knew, he was running towards her as her body left the ground and vaulted over the railing.

His heart wanted to stop. It was almost angelic the way Anstice's form floated away from Chelsea bridge, tumbling through the air like a sparrow from its nest. Her black hair whipped around her face. A hand reached out for her, but was too late. That's when his muscles seized. The shockwave of the act was enough to force all the air from Mycroft's lungs.

He barely registered the crowd of walkers and motorists alike streaming towards the railing's edge, or Ryan Gatewood barreling past him, shouting; or Esther Meninsky throwing Moran to the ground with a single bullet to the shoulder blade. For once in his life, Mycroft was properly stunned. His heart tightened uncomfortably in his chest.

"Ana..." He breathed. The man swallowed, feeling his balancing go him like a rug pulled from under his shoes. [Frantically], he grasped the railing for support; forcing his eyes to sweep of the stormy grey water. The river Thames rushed on; it had swallowed his sister whole. Ana - little Ana - who used to curl up on his lap, followed him around the family library, and steal his old school notebooks from the box under his bed. Ana, who smiled every time he decided to leave his room for dinner and raced from her room to embrace him when he came home from university to visit...

Anstice Cornelia Holmes; he could see the obituary.

She was four months shy of turning twenty-seven.

"Sir," Ryan Gatewood's voice snapped the Major to reality. Mycroft's stony expression was slowly shattering. His resolve crumbling like pillars of sand in hurricane gales. He could only nod. Gatewood awkwardly held out the khaki trench, back dark with the sidewalk's damp and the right cuff barely smeared with blood.

"Thank you... Ryan," Mycroft exhaled. "Agent dismissed,"

"I'm... I'm sorry, sir," Ryan offered clumsily, giving a quick salute before rushing off the aid Meninsky. Moran was having none of the Israeli woman and was trying to buck her off as she held him flat to the pavement with hands behind his back, her stockinged knee pressed flush to his neck.

Mycroft turnedd back to the Thames, the image of Anstice's body floating just underneath the choppy surface rushing through his brain. His little sister's body being buffeted out to sea. Leaning desperately on the metal rail, Mycroft fumbled in the coat's pocket for his mobile. His thumb found a solitary number and the call button. Mycroft prayed the call wouldn't go unanswered - just this one time.

"What do you want?" came a habitually cold voice.

"Sherlock, we have Moran," said Mycroft weakly.

"And Stasi?" When Mycroft didn't answer immediately, Sherlock repeated harshly: "Mycroft, what about Stasi?"

"Gone." The older Holmes choked out. The line went cold and then died altogether with a resounding click.

Sherlock's arms fell slack against his side, the mobile phone slipping through the fingers. It clattered against the floor. In a stupor, the detective stumbled to the black armchair. His head was spinning - nausea built in his esophagus until it threatened to spill onto his tongue. His chest was strapped in a vice and trapped on the rack, tightening and stretching until it might've burst. Instead it turned into a coughing fit that raged for nearly six minutes. Bent over his knees, Sherlock buried his face in his hands, clutching at the curls on his forehead. Memories from their childhood flooded behind his eyes - the row-boat, the attic bookcase, the thunderstorms and Christmas "hugs". Sherlock growled in frustration, trying to grind out the visions. Vision watering, the silvery irises landed on a thick volume of poetry by Eliot.

Stasi hated it when he cried and he had something that would fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would say I'm sorry, but.... I'm not. I'll be honest because I planned this.  
> It was coming at some point.  
> Also, my apologies for the out-of-character moments that you may or may not agree with. They were necessary for certain functionalities. And I could absolutely be more vague.


	8. Elegy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treat this as an epilogue, thank you!

Anstice Cornelia Holmes, 27, died on Thursday, Dec. 27th in an apparent suicide by jumping from Chelsea Bridge, in London. Ms. Holmes was born in Aberdeen, Scotland on June 16th 1986 and was living in London upon returning from Marrakesh, Morocco in November.

She is survived by her parents, Cyrille and William Holmes; her two brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, as well as many aunts, uncles, and cousins.

A memorial service will be held at 10 am on Friday, January 4th at St. Peter's Catholic Church in Aberdeen. A family reception will follow the service at the Holmes residence, Larkspur House.

The service had been nice, the brothers supposed. Nothing like being thrust into an abrupt family reunion where every other member disparages you and the rest watched your brother with the coldness of a man convicted of murder. Especially at your baby sister's funeral. Both Sherlock and Mycroft agreed that Anstice would've hated the whole affair: the freesia and apple blossom branches, the childhood photos and mum getting teary eyed at their appearance. Sherlock would have said he only came at Mrs. Hudson's urgings, but somehow the lie wouldn't voice itself – in fact, the man maintained muteness the entire trip.

Cyrille Holmes spent the two days that relatives were gathered weeping on her sons' shoulders while the elder William Holmes didn't emerge from the library's confines. The third morning saw Aunt Tatienne off and more of the Holmes matriarch flipping through her daughter's photographs. Mycroft stayed with the woman, reading and glancing at a few pictures when she commented on one, while Sherlock retreated to Anstice's room. He'd found the box of experiment notes from their junior school days along with a packet of letter correspondence dating to Sherlock's years at university.

Their father finally revealed himself that night at dinner; he was the most drunk the other three had ever seen him. No doubt the ever-present bottle of brandy in the study had long since been drained. As his wife watched in her self-decided helplessness, William put both his sons through the wringer. In their youth, the man had been a master of verbal punishment, stating once that a stream of well-placed threats and insults was more affective then the cane. The older man pontificated on how Anstice's death was preventable, entirely Mycroft's doing, and that he should've known better than to let her participate in dangerous scenarios.

Sherlock had never before (or again) been so disappointed to receive the lighter beating, as it were.

They drove back from Scotland in the reticence of a cemetery. When Sherlock insisted on going directly to Baker Street, Mycroft didn't attempt to argue. He ended up leaving with a box of Anstice's effects and the phantom sensation of Mrs. Hudson's sympathetic embrace. Apparently, Sherlock had only said one sentence on the premises in the six days leading up to their departure.

The day he left, the younger man told the landlady: "She wanted to take you to dinner for New Years',"

January 30th, 6

John Watson had never seen a man rebound so quickly. The week after the new year was rung in, the man was near catatonic; so immersed in what the doctor assumed was grief that the violin began to show dust. The following week, Sherlock Holmes was responding to Lestrade's phone calls after one ring and had more energy than had previously been exhibited. In no time, the pair was back to racing London's street-maze as they were accustomed. If it wasn't immediately following the death of the detective's sister, John wouldn't have begun asking questions.

And yet, the doctor stood before the detective in a rage fueled by (of all things) a silk slipper and a book of poetry. Sherlock's head dropped back against the couch cushions, his senses wading into the post-high lull. He was barely paying attention to the other man, which only heightened John's exasperation.

"This is just like you," John dictated, examining the contents of the slipper. It had been tucked into a hollowed out copy of T.S. Eliot's collected works and modified to hold a vial of seven-percent solution and a hypodermic needle. Ten guesses as to what the tools were currently being used for. "Instead of actually mourning your sister - like anybody else would – you do everything in your power to cover it up,"

"Of course I would," Sherlock drawled, the syllables a touch slurred. "It's a weakness that he knows about. Therefore, it needs to go,"

John scoffed at the words. "Do you think Anstice would be pleased to hear you say that her death is an inconvien-,"

"I'm sure you're just brimming with alternatives, aren't you" Sherlock interrupted. The two men locked eyes for a long time. A minute later, John marched out of the flat with the slipper. Listening, it wasn't hard to be sure that the doctor had given it to Mrs. Hudson for safe-keeping. Sherlock wouldn't dare raid the old lady's flat for something trivial; if he wanted to continue, he would buy more. When John returned, he pulled the red armchair toward the detective and sat down, watching his friend intently.

"Tell me about her,"

"And what will that accomplish?" The detective sighed, irritated.

"Granted you don't talk about anything remotely personal, but I'd like to hear it," The doctor replied firmly. "If you wouldn't mind…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to hide his smirk as best he could. Mum had occasionally dragged him to Anstice's viola lessons which bored him to tears, but never had he imagined what fun the practicing would be. While Sherlock enjoyed tormenting his sister as much as any older brother, having the practice done for him was always a treat – sitting back and watch her become bothered by an inanimate object.

Anstice had the delightful habit of holding her breath in fits of frustration. At the sound of a sharp that should've been natural or a grace note played too slowly, the thirteen year old would stiffly lower the instrument and bow, purse her lips and inhale deeply. Her black eyebrows would knit together as she read the music, her cheeks growing steadily pinker. After a few minutes, Anstice would exhale in a measured stream before raising the viola to her shoulder and starting into it again.

This week it was Schuman's Fairytales, which was positively excruciating for someone so used to Brahms.

"Lower your left elbow, Stasi," Sherlock advised over the pages of H.G. Wells' The Time Machine. The melody cut off sharply. Anstice had turned and was watching him skeptically, as if to say "what do you know" but thought better of it. Sherlock exhaled and pulled his violin case from the shelf behind him. He lifted the instrument from the velvet indentation and proceeded to demonstrate.

"Your elbow doesn't need to be raised that high and you'll never play the trills correctly if you keep your shoulder that tense," He explained. For effect, he ran the bow across the strings to create a shrill chord that made Anstice jumped.

"If you say so…" She huffed in reply. Her body language screamed teenage defiance, yet she took his suggestion. For the next hour, the book lay neglected on the couch cushions as Sherlock critiqued Anstice's form while lethargically picking the violin strings.

The buzzing hospital lights had kept her up for days on end with their nasty synthetic-mosquito sounds. Anstice hadn't been allowed to do more than talk by the hospital staff; sitting up, moving her arms or head, and breathing deeply were all on the laundry list off activities deemed off-limits. Miraculously, she'd been pulled from the embassy wreckage with a broken ankle, three fractured fingers on her left hand, dehydration and a mild concussion. Yet, the hospital staff had persisted in keeping her on an IV drip. Anstice and Sophia were still in Bishek, but their employers were arranging for them to be treated at home.

Anstice had been alerted to this fact just as a few nurses were, essentially, packing her up. She was considered stable for more than two days, but Sophia had met those requirements that morning. The hospital grudgingly agreed to release her on the condition that medics would be on board. Said medics forced Anstice to lie down, strapping her thighs and waist down. Sophia, however, lapsed back into her unconscious state as soon as they were in the air – probably something to do with the air pressure.

She'd never expected to wake up in a Luxembourg hospital with her partner already five minutes gone. An emergency landing had taken place because Sophia – for God knows what reason – had gone into cardiac arrest. She had stayed stable until the medics arrived, then it turned into a bloody Hail Mary to keep Sophia alive. None of the doctors wanted to give her the details, so Anstice sat next to the Argentine's bedside wringing her hands and willing her eyes to stay off the cooling body of Sophia Dias. She spent four hours in the room alone with the body, praying and occasionally talking out loud. Anstice didn't remember any of what she had said, with the exception of fear instilled by their flat being empty.

A faceless agency runner had helped her to another plane that held them all the way to Heathrow, along with Sophia. Anstice tried not to imagine the woman in a plain wooden box in the cargo hold – it made her sick to her stomach. Her division got their own drawn out funeral with many visits from on high. Sophia was praised to the mountaintops; Anstice was overwhelmingly consoled.

And that was that.

London, March 13th – 22:00

Mycroft unlocked the door of his top floor just outside former-Belgravia's limits. He haphazardly tossed his briefcase in the living room, but hung his coat on the stand. For some reason, this night of all nights, the flat seemed overpoweringly vacant. It was in normal pristine fashion, but the air didn't seem as stale or empty as it had been. A kind of draught had settled over the man and persisted on following him since that day.

It had been nearly four months. The obituary was written and the meager bits of Anstice had been recovered by Metro: her phone had miraculously washed up near Albert's bridge and was immediately placed in evidence with her jacket, earpiece, scarlet red coat, and black dress. Mycroft had personally received handwritten notes of condolence from the heads of CIA, FBI, Israeli SIS, MI6 and MI5; all five had instantly gone to the shredder. Life, however stubbornly, kept moving and neither Holmes brother was having much trouble keeping up. In fact, Mycroft had a case to offer his brother – the willing informant, Ms. Adler, was none to0 pleased with the outcome of the meeting at the Ivy.

Pouring a rather full brandy, Mycroft proceeded to his study. He cracked the door handle to see the screen of his computer glowing blue against the windows, still at log-in screen. The man took a swallow and continued to the desk, not bothering to turn the lights on. He already cautioned a guess where the little intruder was hiding – back right corner, almost equal with the door, pressed at the base of the bookshelves, and unarmed. He'd caught their breath as it strained against hyperventilation.

Settling himself in front of the computer, Mycroft called: "If you wouldn't mind coming out of the shadows, then we could negotiate. I assure you I am not in the mood for games, if you understand me,"

There was a drop in the atmosphere. Shuffling emanated from where he'd predicted. There was a limping sound to their gait, a hesitance that wasn't nerve-controlled. Mycroft wondered lightly if they'd try to sneak out of the room. If they did, he'd let them go. The little infiltrator surprised the government by halting their uncertain walk at the lamp stand at the shelves' corner.

"I don't suppose you would want to - ," the bulb flickered on, tossing a warm yellow glow on the leather chairs, book spines, and the two people waiting in the dark. "negotiate with the queen of the dead?"

The brandy stain never quite came out of those trousers.

Tel Aviv, November 4th

Esther Meninsky paced the floor of her office like a shark circling blood. Trapline was proving to be more difficult than she'd expected. Not only were the Brits halfway to closing their fingers around her throat for getting the sniper, but the man himself was proving to be quite resistant. She'd had him locked in the claustrophobic, windowless, and lightless questioning room for near two weeks – the third stint in the last two months. In exact accordance with the transcripts of Moriarty's interviews, Moran held his tongue with every other agent that bombarded him with their methods. He held out until they'd all been exhausted which was only when Meninsky herself would be sent in. This time, they were bypassing the stalling entirely.

Moran had had two weeks to get his mind right and Esther alone was to be interrogator. After all, she was a closer.

The two armed guards at the room's door parted for her like the Red Sea in the Old Testament. Being revered and feared was exactly all it was cracked up to be: the exhilaration at asserting seniority, the access one was granted, the special knowledge that came with being inducted into the top tier. Esther Meninsky believed the intelligence community could be at her beck-and-call should she so want it that way. Her connections and information webs were immense, wide-spread, and perfectly hidden to anyone outside of Israeli defense. She had her own key to Moran's steel vault of residency, which clicked as it turned in its slot.

"Hello again, Sebastian," She began coldly. The door shut, successfully sealing her in. The tingle ran through her spine; she could've been shut in Hannibal Lecter's glass cell for all Meninsky knew. The passive, yet subversively sinister demeanor was matched ounce for ounce in Trapline. It wasn't a learned behavior – that fact was clearly visible. The subject offered no greeting aside from a concealable sneer of recognition. Meninsky sat at the solitary table where Moran was handcuffed to the leg and started rifling through his file, pouring over transcripts and profiles she'd already read a hundred times at least.

"You're not fooling anyone, so just get on with it," Moran spat irritably after a moment's wait. Meninsky glanced up curiously.

"What was that?" Her eyebrow flinched upward. Moran huffed, fingers itching to tap impatiently on the metal table top.

"I know you aren't freshening up anything. You lot have that useless pile of papers memorized so you could say it in your sleep," He said in one breath, then – inhaling – finished: "I've been locked up in here for so long, there can't be any new intel. So, in short, you aren't fooling anyone, sweetheart," The man grimaced, inhaling again sharply, as Meninsky's pointed heel connected with the joints of his toes. She smiled disparagingly.

"Duly noted, Mr. Moran," She went back to the file for another minute, purely because of his outburst, then straightened up. She stared down her nose at him. "Since you seem talkative today, I wonder if you'll be receptive to that proposition I spoke of at our last little get together,"

"Refresh my memory," Moran's teeth were gritted; whether out of pain or aggravation, one couldn't tell.

"Gladly; it's very simple really. You help us, we can make sure you don't rot in a prison cell for more than one lifetime,"

"No deal,"

"So quick, Sebastian?" Meninsky pretended to be shocked by his declaration. Sebastian was playing right into her little game, exactly as she'd expected he knowingly would. "What if I said that your accommodations would be changed?"

"How so?" He snidely dismissed.

"For one, you wouldn't spend the rest of your life in Israel," Moran looked mildly intrigued. Meninsky continued on, unabashed. "My men have struck an agreement with your countrymen. If you agree to spend ten years serving this agency with counter-terrorism pursuits, you have the option of being tried in England for murder - ,"

"Be more specific; there were lots of murders,"

"The murder of one senior government officer, as opposed to numerous counts of premeditated homicide," Meninsky concluded her speech, leaning back in her chair. Moran mulled this over in his brain, tumbling the outcomes together to flesh out an extensive flow-chart of potential data. Sure, he didn't actually murder raven-haired Persephone, but the second option meant having to be sweated for the particulars of all the other killings – most of which he couldn't remember the particulars of. Settling on one and done was decent enough to his mind.

Besides, he had ten years of technical freedom – save for the Israeli watchdogs and maybe an ankle monitor. Like he had told Jim many months ago, he was good at close range.

Smirking smugly, Moran looked Meninsky directly in the eyes. "I accept your terms, Queen,"

Then, the real questioning began and Meninsky later admitted to herself that she could've laid off on the corporal punishment. Moran wasn't the first person she'd had to beat a straight answer out of.

January 31st - a year later

Everything is over before it has begun, at least to Cavanaugh's mind. Through the scope, he sees the swift movement of a free hand nimbly slipping into a pocket, drawing out the gun, and Holmes recoiling in horror. He's too far away to hear the noise, but he sees it – the almost grotesque explosion that is the result of a life being so violently cut off. It has its own private noise in Cavanaugh's brain that screams in his ears and slams its fists on his skull, pulling at his eyeballs from the inside.

There is a noise in the real world, a strangled sound that he recognizes at his own voice; a gasp that pitches his body forward and dangerously close to the edge of the open window. He grasps the window frame to stop himself falling through. He's sure it doesn't, but the sound seems to echo up the staircase as a wave of nausea passes over him. Cavanaugh wasn't one to get squeamish at death, but any man outside of homicidal maniacs would find a wide spray of blood and brain matter revolting.

Cavanaugh should have known that his boss would die only to rid himself of perpetual boredom. Moran should've killed Holmes long before, in the swimming pool – watch the detective's blood stain the white and the doctor's body blow to pieces.

Now, Moriarty is dead and everything is over.

Yet, Cavanaugh still has a job to do. Steeling himself, he settles firmly on the stairs and spots his target. The consulting criminal was not a fan of John Watson, but the feeling was comfortably mutual. In the last few weeks, the man had privately been spitting mad over the doctor's interference; how Holmes' image remained firmly intact as long as Watson hovered nearby. The game's full extent would never be realized until one of the pair was eliminated.

The time has come. John Watson had spotted the detective perched at the edge of Saint Bartholomew's rooftop. They're talking. Cavanaugh's finger trembles on the trigger, watching both men with vicious dark eyes.

The expression on the doctor's face as the detective completes his flight is nothing like Cavanaugh had ever seen. Moran, before his untimely capture, often talked about reactions of witnesses. As per instructions, he keeps the crosshairs firmly on John Watson as he runs for the sidewalk, crashing into the cyclist. The need to fire was overwhelming, but messing up the plans is still ominous even with Moriarty dead on the far rooftop. Destroying everything left is almost a requirement, a need to feel the release and power, but Cavanaugh needs to stay in control.

Cavanaugh's sweaty palms slip and the rifle falls from his fingers, clattering onto the stairs. It's over. John Watson is being pushed away from Holmes' body. He hums a listless tune as he packs up. It was perfect shooting conditions that day; such a shame they went to waste.

January 6th

Happy 29th, Sher! Hope you're not being too hard on Watson today – he's brilliant with putting up with you, so we don't want him burning out yet. I've seen the papers recently. Tread lightly, would you? I'd like to see this fiasco gone before the Professor really gets to you.

All my love – Anstice

February 2nd

I feel partially responsible… Then again, you never did like to listen. Apparently it was instant. Hope it didn't hurt.

February 8th

"A suicide kills two people. That's what they're for…" That's from Arthur Miller. Mycroft wouldn't let me go to the funeral, so I've been mulling on that little wisdom scrap. Why are those words so painfully true for you & me, Will?

June 18th

I might get put back on active service again, but that all depends on the psych evaluation. If I fail, I blame you, William Sherlock Holmes! So there.

June 27th

Mycroft gave me your coat – the really nice Belfast. You're never getting it back.

July 16th

Passed the evaluation, but am being sent to CIA as a liaison first. They've got to rearrange something in Budapest, but whatever. I've got a new name – Esme Ladra. Remember Ryan Gatewood? He's my new supervisor while I'm in the US. My hair is brown now. Trust me – you'd hate it too.

Miss you so much – Stasi

"Can I join you, Esme?" A voice called after the brunette. The woman, as well as the whole of CIA's east wing third floor, turned at the sound. Ryan Gatewood was half-jogging towards her in the space between the cubicle partitions. She smiled as he caught up.

"You want to come to lunch with me?" Esme asked, adjusting the strap of her purse. Ryan smiled at the strong Scottish accent the former Anstice Holmes was using, all the while standing awkwardly in between the desks. It was like high school again, that feeling of suddenly being the center of attention without totally trying. He wondered if the young woman understood the feeling.

"If you wouldn't mind… yes," The agent replied uncharacteristically sheepish. Esme smirked and fished through her bag. Both of them now worked desk jobs grudgingly. Apparently, Gatewood still had to be approved to even apply for field work again.

"You're driving," She ordered, tossing the blonde man the keys to her Volvo – a silver sedan on loan from the British Embassy. Nodding towards the stairs, she masterfully ignored the gaping stares and twitters from the others. Ryan averted his attention from the thumbs-ups of coworkers and focused on his lunch date. She flashed Gatewood a winning beam as she swept into the stairwell.

The door shut behind the pair and a section of the floor erupted in mild-mannered celebration.

Ryan watched his companion as she walked next to him in downtown McLean, Virginia. They were in search of a Turkish restaurant an intern named Rose had been raving about. Reflection: this wasn't the same woman he had met more than a year ago in Mycroft Holmes' office covered in napalm. Meeting her again wasn't upsetting, but fitting. It was like meeting a friend in another life. Anstice Holmes had died, but Esme Ladra was an appropriate substitute. No one could ever truly replace the brilliantly beautiful Persephone – even her reincarnation. Occasionally, Ryan would call her by the mythological moniker, just to see the minute glimmer of recognition that materialized in her startlingly blue irises.

He was glad she was allowed to keep those.

Esme had no problem leaning against Ryan in the restaurant or holding onto his arm as they strolled around the DC suburb. They had no pressing work back at headquarters – an ideal situation – so Ryan pulled Esme into a corner grocery. She just laughed as he told her to pick her favorite candy. Like teenagers cutting school, the sat on a bench with their sweets; Gatewood had Swedish Fish and Ladra had a Carmello. The man watched in amusement as she plucked off the chocolate, popping the fragments into her mouth and then pulling the caramel off in pure, butterscotch coloured chunks.

"That's quite an original eating method," Ryan chuckled, chewing another red gummy. Esme laughed, licking the sticky sweet from her index finger and rolling the caramel around with her tongue. "How do you eat Oreos for the record?"

"Break 'em in half," She commented. "You?"

"I hate Oreos; always have," Ryan answered with a funny lilt. Esme exhaled and paused her candy discretion to cast an equally funny look at the blonde.

"Somehow that feels un-American," There was a drop in the conversation. Three bikers, two dog-walkers and a runner passed before the Scot spoke again. "Do you want to ask me something, Cavalier?"

"Okay… First: would you like to have dinner tomorrow night?"

"I'd love to. Second?"

"Have you spoken with your… your brother recently?" Ryan took a more gentle tone at the last. Esme straightened, watching Ryan with watery eyes. An equally dismayed smile assumed her cheery grin.

"I take it you saw the papers, then?" She swallowed. An uncertain posture passed over her as she turned to look at Ryan. The agent didn't dare start talking again. "Well, it's been a month since we've talked, but I'm going to see him before they transfer me to Budapest. When I go back, I want you to take my place as liaison," Ryan waited for more, but there wasn't any.

"You want me to take your job?" The man was astonished at the proposition, but Esme nodded. He was floored by the confirmation. In many ways, Ryan thought he wouldn't be good for much outside of field work; pulling the trigger on a semi-automatic or chasing down targets weren't the hardest tasks created. Joint Intelligence Committee liaison was a totally new arena and Ryan's high school baseball skills were very rusty.

"You'd be brilliant, Ryan," Esme explained in earnest. "And, you'd get to live in London… and I'd like that,"

"You would?"

"Absolutely; I'd like to have a place to come back to," Esme pursed her lips, playing with another glob of caramel. "Ryan, Sher – my brother died thinking I'd been washed out to sea. My parents were put through the agonizing experience of not having their daughter's body to bury. Only one person in England knows that I'm alive – I need one more,"

Ryan didn't answer. He wrapped an arm around the woman. A weak smile pulled at her lips and she scooted closer to him, resting a head on his shoulder. Even though they barely knew each other, hadn't spoken for a year, and had altered so much since December 27th, something drew Esme to Ryan. She liked having someone to lean on because a little girl could depend on her older brothers until a certain age; she had begun to feel like she was over-stepping Mycroft's good graces. The man had gotten her out of many things in past years – repayment was waiting in the wings.

Sherlock would've laughed at her romanticism, but the whole thing was slurry of Shakespearean love sonnets and classic Greek tragedy. He would've teased her for the rest of eternity.

London, September 19th – 7:32 am

For the first time in almost a year, Anstice felt completely rested. She slipped out from under the sheets in Mycroft's spare room – now really her room – and threw the red dressing gown about her frame. She'd be lying if she said she didn't pick through the boxes of Sherlock's things. It was stowed in the linen closet, located temptingly just across the hall from her door. It was mostly his clothes, a few books, his laptop, and his chemistry equipment. Mycroft usually caught her when she became preoccupied with the sentimental things Sherlock kept – a photo album and their childhood science notes. The detective was predictably unpredictable, even in death.

Anstice ran a rough hand through her dark chocolate curls, now brushing the tops of her shoulders. The dye was starting to wash out, but she wasn't going to redo it until the day before her flight to Budapest. She imagined Mycroft would've left already. The government was dealing with some embassy kerfuffle in Hong Kong and the man had barely set foot in his flat during daylight hours the whole week she'd been back. Either way, she traipsed down the hallway towards the kitchen. People were talking, but Anstice dismissed it – Mycroft was probably on speaker phone or something. Uninhibited but well reasoned arguing leaked from the door. The young woman pushed open the swinging door and the bickering quit.

"Morning, My-," Anstice's voice cut out when her eyes found the looming figure on the far side of the counter. Her features softened, became almost dreamy, and a ghost of a smile played her mouth. "Sher…Sherlock… is that you?"

The brother's shared a glance before the younger nodded and offered his sister a lukewarm grin. Anstice took a hesitant step forward before she burst forward, burying her face in his chest and arms coming to latch around his torso. His muscles tightened in shock for a moment before loosening and returned the action. It was just a moment. Anstice exhaled, content, and Sherlock felt her body slump. The whole of her weight slid into the floor, her head lolling back. Sherlock had her up in a bridal style hold in a second and walked to one of the bar chairs. He deposited his sister's limp form in a chair, pushing it in until her knees touched the kickboard and resting her head on her arms. One of his hands absent-mindedly smoothed her curls.

"Should I go?"

"It's for the best… Budapest in October?"

"Maybe… I'll catch up at some time, won't I?"

Anstice woke with a start: "Sherlock!"

Her voice bounced off the walls of the empty kitchen. She frantically whipped her head about. Darting from the room, she nearly ran into Mycroft as he left his office. He caught her easily, giving her a puzzled look.

"Where's Sherlock?" burst from her lips. The query was greeted with a concerned expression.

"Ana, nothing has changed," Mycroft watched the affect of his damning words on her features. The guilt, dread, and reality sinking back in as she got hold of her mind again. He could read the thoughts plain as day in the aching façade: Sherlock is dead. Sherlock has been dead for over nine months. The youngest Holmes son was not coming back.

"That's right… I'm sorry," her voice was thick with tears, garbled and strained. "I'd do well to remember that, shouldn't?"

In a gesture that would've seemed odd to anyone outside their family, Mycroft allowed Anstice a loose embrace. The young woman felt her heart drop and her skin turn cold and clammy. She'd fallen asleep at the kitchen counter, becoming susceptible to a charlatan vision. To think, she'd barely passed the psychological exam.

Steeling herself, Anstice pushed away from him, nodding stiffly before returning to her room. Once safely locked within, she threw herself on to the duvet and let her knees shrink up to her chest. For an hour or more – she didn't count – Anstice stared at the window blankly. The woman refused to move until her thoughts had processed in full. When the tiny clock on the dresser chimed eleven, hunger pains forced her to movement.

Sometimes when Anstice thinks about Budapest and the reunion and how the whole mess ended, she reworks it in her mind. Her ankle is fine, the bullet hole in her palm healed, and she's not too delirious with pain and alcohol to be unaware of what's going on around her. She's happy, capernoited on the celebration of mission success. She ties the brunette hair of Esme Ladra, which she's just spent hours soaking in the bath, up and out of her face. The water was tinted brown, dirty with dye. It was about time to touch up again, but that was far from the woman's mind.

Then she and Sherlock dance on that awfully old, grimy Persian rug to some old Turkish tune crackling over a battered radio. Dinner had been street food and she's wearing a new dress of vibrant gold and orange. Sherlock spins her around and she throws her head back. For the first time in three years, the siblings laugh because – by some accidental mercies – they're alive and just fine.

Even if 'just fine' was a relative term.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the wonderful readership! I appreciate everything and hope you enjoyed reading as much as I did writing!  
> Sincerely,  
> C.L.E.


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